Snapshots
by AlyGardiner
Summary: -Companion to The First Taken- They're all connected, they're all broken, but there's one thing they all share: Love. It's universal, and unexpected, but it's there. And as the song goes, Everybody loves Somebody.
1. Prologue

Title: Snapshots

Summary: Everybody loves somebody, so the song goes. It might as well be the tagline for this story. Love is unexpected, but it's there, and there's no telling where you'll find it.

Pairings: Platonic: Sylar/Daphne, Peter/Molly, Peter/Claire, Hannah/Michael, AU Peter/Sylar. Romantic: Hannah/Evan.

Disclaimer: All I own are Hannah, Evan and Mia. And a few other OCs around here. Everything else doesn't belong to me. Nada, zip, zero.

A/N: I have been absent for about a month, now I am back baby! Two chapters. One is a prologue, the other a real story.

* * *

**Volume One: Take a Picture, It'll Last Longer**

Cameras were masters of lies. They snap, and click, and there's a picture. It's used to capture memories, and dozens more have emerged to suit the needs of the newly technological way of the humans. New ways to take memories, in fact, it's become a profession.

But he knows better, cameras are Godsend, if it weren't for them, memories would take months to take. Hire a painter, put a model in front of him, and just wait for him to finish his job. But the cameras make it easier. All he needs to do is snap and click. All he needs to have is a perfect memory, something that's truly wonderful enough.

He wants to frame it, but, only, he can't find a perfect memory. His team has, and all of their rooms are filled with memories, but not him. He has so little of memories, but he still doesn't keep them by his bedside like the others do. God, he wishes he had something to remember. But everything seems so insignificant.

Birthdays, weddings, deaths, nothing seems extraordinary enough for him. He wishes there was something for him to remember. He remembers everything, eidetic memory; sometimes he thinks it's a curse. So little time, and so many memories to place in his head, but none of them mean anything to him. He wants something to mean something to him.

It's what everyone says, that he needs to have something, and someone. But he's always been arrogant, and stubborn, so he doesn't listen to them. So his camera just sits at his desk, unused until the perfect moment.

And he wonders, if everyone else is exactly unlike him, and uses the camera every single moment to document their lives. He concludes, yes, there are.


	2. The Watchmaker And The Deer

**A/N: **Yes...Daphlar's first. I am in love with this couple. There might be a few moments missing from this, but I think I did pretty good.

This one's to Lara. Who shares the Daphlar enthusiasm. And to Raisa (sighs) who just pushed me to have her name on this.

**

* * *

**

**Snapshots**

**Part Endless: Sylar and Daphne**

Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray ponders. Sometimes he wonders where she went, when her only goodbye was a whoosh of air when she ran away from him. He wonders why she ran away, why run from him, they were each other's best friend, but she just went.

Sometimes wondering isn't enough, he should be out there, looking for her, and telling her how much she meant to him, that she was the one who saved him. She saved whoever he was supposed to be, saved his humanity and whatever love that was left inside him.

What he pitied the most was there were no pictures of her, what was left of her was in his own mind. And, in his own mind, he could recollect everything. Her appearance, her smile, everything about her. He could visualize her blonde hair, her smile as she sat next to him. What he would give for these dreams, these visuals, to come true.

He wants Daphne, he wants his best friend, he wants her to be there for him. In his new life, he still missed one thing from his old one, and that one thing was her.

* * *

He knows their army, the men and women kept caged behind hard glass windows, banging on them madly as a show for the guards, because they all know they're getting out very soon. Their entire league is here, all, as Knox has said, except one.

Her name is anonymous but, through Knox's description, she sounds like a dog. A faithful woman, as he described, with no intention of leaving for them on the opposite side, or leaving at all, for that matter. He doesn't see her until breakout day.

Sylar leans against the wall, arms crossed and comfortable enough in his Level 5 attire of glorified pajamas. He contemplates, because it's today, he's not nervous-he's Sylar-it's just today. He sees his biological mother, her cell is exactly opposite his, and he can see her in the same position he's in.

He likes the fact that Natasha's his mother, because that would explain why he was never fitted into the Gray scenario: because he was never part of it in the first place. But that would also mean Peter Petrelli was his damned brother. He had to have a brother, and it had to be Petrelli.

The bastard was why he was here in the first place, and he hates him. There's proof, too, something he can't erase. She's shown him the picture; she holds it like a scar, just as he holds his Sylar watch the same way.

Sylar goes to Kirby Plaza knowing the truth, but he doesn't show compassion for his estranged brother. Because Peter's still a bastard-loving, empathic, his other half-and Sylar's still a monster, and monsters never show compassion, no matter what blood tells them about their past.

He just let Peter explode, merely dying there because of Hiro Nakamura's stab through him. But he survived, and life is better. One more thing he detests is Natasha's told him they were once a family, that him and Peter were once actually brothers, spending their infancy together as normal as he hated to be.

A tap on the glass window, and he stops thinking. He turns around and sees a blonde woman. She's pretty, he has to give her that, with a short bob that adorns her face, and what a sweet, innocent-looking face that is.

The world is different as she hands him her hand when the glass door rolls down for their escape. They lock eyes, and he instantly concludes she's not like him, like them. She's not a killer, not a senseless murderer as the others are. She's like a deer in their league of lions. She could be slaughtered in moments.

He can instantly say she and he were so different, different backgrounds-he can guess she's had a homely upbringing- , different agendas, but it's as if they're two halves of the same coin. He gets out of the cell, and sees agents overhead. Bullets head for the two of them, and Sylar, on reflex, pushes the woman aside and stops the bullets with his trusty TK.

He looks at the frightened agents, then to the blonde woman on the floor who looks just as taken aback as he is. He's not used to a team, maybe it's just an impulse to keep the people on his side safe.

* * *

Sylar hates Peter Petrelli. The empath beat the hell out of him, and there he was, worthless. He was the monster in the story, but he is quite proud of his brother. He just showed the aggressive in him, who cared if it was for the damned cheerleader?

He's being nursed in the confines of his new room. The door is blue, and it's pitiful. He detests it beyond all reason. But he doesn't really care at the moment. Daphne-that's the deer's name-has a piece of cloth dabbed on his cheek, meant to collect the blood Peter Petrelli spilt on him.

"You got hit up pretty badly," she says. Small talk-another thing he detests. He can make a whole list of them.

"I hate him," Sylar says.

"Who, Peter?" Daphne asks. Sylar nods as she continues to dip the cloth in water then it returns to his face.

"Hate is a strong word," Daphne says.

She sounds like a little girl; convinced that stupid is still a bad word, and no one really hates anyone. She really is a deer, then. He admires her, for a second that she can keep that part of her, even after she's been adopted into this evil league Natasha's made for them.

"You don't seem like the rest of them," Sylar says, looking at her, his rough, big ones looks slowly into her small, timid ones.

"I'm not," Little Deer says, her head held low, the cloth in her hand on her lap, stopping her attention to him. "I've got nowhere else to go."

Suddenly, her second of grief-it's grief, it's painted so evidently on her face-is gone, and she's smiling at him. He almost has the impulse to smile back. He hasn't smiled a real smile in a long time. It's always menacing, or a smirk. Maybe Little Deer can bring it out of him.

She gets up, bring the bucket of water with her with the cloth in her other hand. She leans against his doorway, and says, "Bye, Sy." Nicknames, the Lord had no mercy against him.

* * *

Could anyone conceive that she would make a friend all in the course in a few hours? Let alone with a serial killer. "So, tell me, Deer, about your family," Sylar says, leaning in his chair.

They're in the cafeteria, food just lies abandoned between them on the table, and both are equally content with the situation. Sylar's taken a liking to calling her Deer whenever the opportunity presents itself, just as Daphne continues to annoy him with his own nickname: Sy. Deer could've been a nice nickname if it was spelled right, but now, it just sounds condescending coming out of Sylar's mouth.

"I grew up in a corn field," Daphne starts.

"Corn? Smallville, much?" Sylar teases her. Yeah, there is a similarity, but that's where it stops. She's not an alien, she's just different.

"My mom died, and then my father became a single dad. I didn't have any brothers or sisters, it was a lonely life," Daphne says. "It made me appreciate my dad more, I guess."

"Your life is one tragic story, Deer," Sylar says.

She looks at him; she doubts he's ever felt this loss. She's read his file: cookies and oatmeal when he wants them, love and hugs from his mother whenever he needs them. Grades couldn't have been looked down upon, it's their little Gabriel, he's the good one.

She would give anything to be embraced by her mother, by her father or her mother, just one more time. Her father died, and that's the reason she's here, because she's kept running and running, she should've figured she'd hit a wall if she wasn't careful.

That wall was Knox, and there was no door out. But she was fine, she was okay, she had somewhere to belong to now. She never wants to go back to her home; it's just a house now. No parents, nothing to keep her there, it's just four walls with no inside.

"It's fine," Daphne says, her head held low.

"For the record, Deer, you turned out pretty good given the circumstances," Sylar says. This coming from a serial killer? From a monster that's not supposed to give a damn about her or anything?

"We should get going. Natasha's got us running observation," Sylar says, getting up, pocketing his hands in his coat pockets. Daphne looks at him, and thinks; maybe he's good after all. Maybe he can run away from all of this, he still has a chance.

His knowing brown eyes search hers, and she answers, with a subtle smile, "Yeah, we should."

* * *

He's the only person she talks to. The young Millbrook says nice things to the others, but Sylar's the only person she can actually talk to. They couldn't be more different, though.

He's a killer, murderous blood runs easily through him, but she, she's nothing like him. Couldn't wield a gun, could never have the sudden heart to stab someone, figuratively or literally. Sylar, he's a wizard at lies and deceit, she can never tell when she's being played or not.

Daphne's his polar opposite. She's here because she has nowhere else to go; he's here out of obligation for his mother, and the hereditary need to make an impact on the world.

Daphne knows about Linderman, the "humanitarian" in his own words, wanting to explode half of New York, not to mention his own son in the process. Wanted to save the world, unite the world, whatever crap he wanted to do.

But Sylar's not like that, he wouldn't let innocent people die, what he does is at his expense, to take what others didn't deserve. But she knew he couldn't have stood for that. He's the only one that knows her, knows everything she likes, she dislikes, and, as much as she hates to admit it, he's a good friend.

He might be sarcastic, over crossing sadistic sometimes, but he's a good friend. And she sometimes hopes there's a part of him that genuinely cares about her, and she's his friend as much as he is to her. It's strange, that they've only known each other for a few days, but, yet, they've connected on every level.

He doesn't expect her to change just because she's in there with them, and she doesn't expect him to change. Killing's in his blood, and she can try to stop that, only knowing she never will. She can try to persuade him to be a better person, to actually be good, but she knows it's going to go out the other ear.

"Hey, Sy," Daphne says to him. They're in his room, after lunch, and the serial killer's legs are crossed with dozens of scattered documents amongst them.

"Yes?" he asks, not looking at her, he's too preoccupied. He's wearing his watchmaker glasses, he looks like a nerd, but he looks good. He looks like Gabriel.

"Do you think we're special?" Daphne asks. It's been a question on the tip of her tongue for a long time. And who knows better about all of this than Sylar? He looks at her, forgets about the documents.

"God created Man, but Man has made a lot of choices, a lot of bad choices. Why choose war instead of peace? Why kill innocence and children? Why abandon love when they have knocked on your door? It's His cruel joke to all of us. That he created us, and gave us the freedom of choice. He intervenes, no doubt, maybe that's why we're like this," Sylar says.

"You think it's at the hand of God?" Daphne asks.

"Some say evolution, some say God. What does it matter now? It's the past, it's happened; its ink has dented history. We should keep quiet about everything. Not ask questions, and let it be," Sylar says.

"Do you regret that you ended up like this?" Daphne asks.

"It's not regret, Daphne, it wasn't my choice. Perhaps it's sadness, maybe. I've always wanted to be special," Sylar says, looking down at his documents again, not facing her. "God just figured out an unusual way to make that happen."

"It's okay to feel normal every once in a while," Daphne says to him, her hand inches from his.

"Being normal means being insignificant," Sylar says.

She can see him now, not Sylar, but Gabriel. God, he looks so innocent, how did he jump so suddenly? How did he become this, knowing nothing but the inside of the brain as he inspects the organ as the victim lies dead before him? Daphne would've given anything to see Gabriel.

"You'll never be insignificant to me," she says. He looks at her, he doesn't smile-he's Sylar-but she can see it in his eyes that he wants to.

* * *

Everything's so fuzzy; maybe this is what a hangover feels like, one punch from an empath is equivalent to a six shots of vodka. She's a good girl; she's never been drunk before, she knows the amount of beer she can take down before everything seems hurdling towards her.

She opens her eyes, and sees that she's no longer on the floor Peter left her on, she's nestled comfortably in her bed, sheets pulled up to her chest. And icepack near by, and a bloody cloth to match. Someone must've sent her a Godsend nurse.

Daphne sits up, and sees on the chair opposite her bed is a sleeping form, hands on his stomach while his chest rises and falls. She knew it; there must've been some good in Sylar. He groans as he turns his position ever so slightly in his chair, but resuming in his sleep in moments.

She knows not to disturb him; he looks like he needs his sleep. So she just watches him, and merely wonders. What if Elle never intervened into his life, would he still be a little Gray watchmaker in Queens? Yes, he's told her about Elle, about the way she saved his suicide attempt, and pushed and pushed him until he killed again.

It was a pattern that couldn't be stopped after that, he started knowing, he started wanting, and then started the killings. Road trips to out of the way towns only to kill and spread a manhunt for him. Heads cut off, brains removed, she knew the MO, she knew how he killed.

She shuddered at the thought of the friends and families of the victims Sylar brutally took life from. Charlene Andrews, Texas, James Walker, Los Angeles, and dozens of others on his shopping list.

But, now, here he is, sleeping soundly in her room, he's been sober for two years. Killing's his addiction, not gambling, or drinking, like normal people, because God knows Gabriel's never been normal. And even that, his sobriety was because he was stuck in captivity, she didn't want to imagine what the world would be like if he actually didn't get captured.

Dozens more murders filled the blanks when Sylar was supposed to be tucked inside Level 5, hundreds more mourners, and the world utterly changed because of the pursuit to capture the sick bastard. What she would give to see her pursuits to make him a good man had actually paid off.

Those hours spent talking to him about good or bad choices, the regrets, all being led up to the path of redemption, and it would actually mean something. She'd actually change someone's life, and in a good way, at that.

Daphne knows Sylar can be good, it's at the heart of every human being, and it only takes a few hard moments to get it to pull through. She knows he can stop this façade of being special, and different, and do something with his life. It's never too late.

She has nothing, he, he has something to work on. A family, a twin brother that she knows wants him to be on the same side as him, a niece; people to take care of him. He'll be good, and have a family, have a son, have a wife by his side. She'll be at the sidelines, happy for him. That's what best friends do.

"You're up," Sylar says, looking at her.

"Hi," Daphne says, smiling at him.

"Are you going to tell me what happened there?" Sylar asks her.

"No, not really," Daphne says. "It's better if you don't know."

"Okay," Sylar says.

"Go back to sleep, you look like you need it," Daphne says, getting up from her bed, starting towards the door. "You can take the bed."

Sylar looks up at her, and smiles. He gets up and lands on Daphne's bed. She can only imagine how he tucked her in, with the sheets pulled up, comfortable and homey. She wants to do the same. In the light, he looks exactly like Peter, the resemblance is uncanny; they really are twins.

Daphne gets the blanket and pulls it up. She whispers, as he begins to fall asleep on her bed, "Thank you."

* * *

When Sylar goes missing, her insides are burning up. She feels remorseful, sad and determined all at the same time. She knows how he feels about Natasha's plan, and she was her to tell her she couldn't do anything about it, that they couldn't do anything about.

Sylar is, evidently, Natasha's son, and he decided to take matters in his own hands. Where he went, she doesn't know, but she's determined to find out. Daphne needs to find him, because it's for him this place is worth living in. her life is worth living when she has someone she knows won't desert her.

It might be Sylar, and people might have their skepticism, but she knows him, just as he knows her. But he left, a part of her says. It wasn't because of her, no; it was because of his mother. He would've stayed if he could. He would've stayed, goes through Daphne's mind like a mantra, trying to reassure herself that that's the truth. That he wouldn't have deserted her if things were different, he would've stayed. They were friends…right?

* * *

So he runs, he tries to remain inconspicuous to the outside world, but his attire-black trench coat and jeans-makes everyone on the plane look at him suspicious. He sits alone-he's Sylar-and looks out the window. Nothing but puffy clouds, serene, it was, and everything seems forgotten in the world.

He remembers a time when he boarded a plane, and he was so excited. Ten year old Gabriel Gray was going to Florida to visit his aunt Carol, and the little boy sat excitedly near the window so he could see everything and anything that they hit along the way.

His Mama and Pap fell asleep, growing tired of Gabriel's antics and his pointing out every single cloud and how he thought each of them resembled a Cocoa Puff. He wore his glasses that day, looking like a good little nerd on the plane.

In the distance, Sylar can almost hear a little boy cry out, "Look, Pap: a Cocoa Puff!" Now, look at him now, trying to run from the only place he ever belonged in, no rules, he made them himself. Little Gabe never really had someone to lean on as a child, a few friends, others he pushed away in adolescence, and others that pushed him away. He was always a loner, a one-man show on the stage of the world.

Then there's Daphne. He feels guilty for leaving her there. He knows how left out she is there, and he's the only person she can talk to. He almost feels pity, but he knows he shouldn't. The girl's done so much for him; she's had the effect on him as she has on him.

Sylar sighs. He wants to go home, but he doesn't know where home is. His Queens home isn't there anymore, sold after his mother's death, the Gray and Sons shop also lies abandoned after he's fixed his last watch, that last watch being Elle Bishop's.

He doesn't feel at home at the Russian facility, mostly because it was built to be a facility, not a home. Maybe he'll never have the luxury of home, maybe his life will always be like this, an outcast. Before he knows it, he's falling asleep, and when he wakes up, it's where it truly begins.

If he steps out of this plane, there's no telling if he'll ever come back. Come back to whoever or whatever that's waiting. Come back to Daphne.

* * *

"What were you talking about?" Daphne asks him as he sits down on his own bed in the Russian facility.

They've just traveled at the speed of sound, and here they are, here he is, back to where he started. Who was he kidding, that he was actually going to reconcile with his brother, to tell him how to fight them. He's just a monster. It's what every person he encountered told him.

His adoptive parents, his real mother, his team, even Daphne said it. But he shrugged it off, feeling that it was just who he was, and he didn't care what everyone else thought. Only, now he did.

"About what?" Sylar asks back, knowing full well what she's asking about.

"About you being a monster, back in Las Vegas," Daphne says, sitting next to him.

"It's the truth, isn't it?" Sylar asks.

"You've changed," Daphne says tenderly.

"What makes you say that? I just killed DL Hawkins, Daph, and there's no telling if I'm ever going to stop," Sylar says, looking down at his lap.

Daphne crosses her legs on his bed, and takes his hand in hers. Even by that, he doesn't look at her.

"You wanted to go to Las Vegas, to find your brother. You couldn't stand to look at Peter, but you were going there. Your intentions were good," Daphne says.

She's right. He despises Peter beyond all reason, yet he was the one boarding a flight to him. He wonders what would've happened if he actually went through it, what could've happened if he hadn't found a detour in DL Hawkins.

"You're amazing," Sylar confesses.

It's true: who else can tell him this kind of truth? The other side of the story? Natasha couldn't, her storytelling is a sinister spin, and the others wouldn't have cared. Daphne's the only one. He leans into her, it's on impulse, and, really, he can't blame himself.

What else could he do, to the one person that understood him better than anyone? In more ways than one, she's the Claire to his Peter, as much as he hates the sentiment. They might not have had the massacred Homecoming, or the revelation that they were related, but they connected, as corny as that sounds. And God knows

Sylar hates corny, but, when it comes to Daphne, all the gooey icky stuff he avoided through his life comes out. Piles of it, and how he detests it. He might be 'changed' but he's still Sylar and he still throws shit at people who say the things he's thinking now, like Peter and Claire.

He kisses her. Daphne's as shocked as he is, but they fall in each other's arms, landing on his bed. It's Daphne, it should've been striking, he should've felt that spark, or that tingle everyone else feels, but he doesn't. He feels nothing, truth is, he feels better when they're just talking.

She feels it, too, apparently, and she pulls away. Sylar gets off her, feeling awkward as hell. Both of them sit in silence for a while, and it's almost like a sitcom, when the man kisses the wrong person at the New Years party, and both of them just stand in silence. God, he can hear crickets.

"I'm sorry," Sylar finally says. It doesn't feel right, it sounds alien coming out of his mouth.

"You…shouldn't be, neither of us knew," Daphne says. "We had to give it a try."

"So we're okay?" he asks.

"We're okay," Daphne chuckles at him. He looks at her, still seeing her bent nose from the downhill mission. She's never actually told him what happened.

"What exactly happened?" Sylar asks, touching her nose.

"Peter punched me," Daphne exhales.

"He what?" Sylar asks.

"Hey, it wasn't his fault, I brought it to myself," she says.

"Still, he shouldn't have punched you," Sylar argues.

"We're actually fighting about this? After seconds after we kissed? Bad timing, Sy, bad timing," Daphne says to him. He can tell she's joking.

"What are you gonna do about it?" Sylar asks her, his fake stare looking into hers.

"I could give you an awkward silence. I know how much you hate them," Daphne smiles. She looks at him, and puts her hand on his cheek. He leans into her cheek, like she's cupping his face one sided.

"I should get going. There a lot of stuff to do," Daphne says, getting up. She walks through the door but turns back on second thought. "For what it's worth, you're a pretty good kisser," she smiles at him. _Thanks_.

* * *

"_He's my best friend," she answered._

"_It's Sylar, isn't it?" Peter asked, and Daphne nodded proudly. "Not to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but that man is incapable of feeling. He's incapable of loving even one bit."_

"_You're wrong!" Daphne yelled, angered_.

It reels over and over again in her head. As soon as she's conscious, she runs. She doesn't give a damn about the dead body she saw, not to anyone who catches her running.

All she hears are Peter's words, and all she sees is Peter's face as she says it. She can't think straight anymore, but her feet seem to know where she wants to go, so she lets them get in charge. Peter's wrong, Sylar is capable of feeling.

She knows it, why would he have kissed her if that didn't mean anything, that she didn't mean anything to him? Of course she means something to him, because he certainly means something to her.

He's her best friend, the best friend she's ever had. He's the person she can talk to. He might not have lovely sentiments in spare, but he has thinly-veiled compliments to give her. She knows he doesn't like anything too corny, because he's Sylar and he's not really the person on television to speak out those lines to her, but that's okay.

It's okay because he's still there for her, she doesn't have to look for him. She can just call his name, and he comes running. She remembers seeing a show on TV, a few years ago, before all this happened. It was just something that randomly flipped on, but it meant something now.

Two people who are completely there for each other, they might've had their fights, but they make up eventually. That's her and Sylar right there on the screen. She can only imagine what he would've said if she told him.

He would've laughed, but it would've been true.

She runs to her bedroom, and when she sees the solitary that is her bed, she falls to the ground, and leans against the bed. She's crying, she started crying a long time ago, but this is the time where actual tears came pouring out.

She sobbed, held her legs against her chest and put her head where her knees were. It's been a long time since she held herself in this position; the last time was when her father died, when she refused to talk to anyone that showed up at the funeral.

She just shut herself in her room, and cried. She was alone now, her mother gone, her father dealt the same cruel fate, and there she was. And here she is.

Maybe Peter's right. How long she spends her time like that, just sitting and contemplating, she doesn't know, but, before she knows it, a tap on the door stops her.

"Daphne?" he calls out. Sylar.

"Go away, Sy," Daphne says.

"Talk to me, you just left, Daph. I don't understand," Sylar says. He taps on the door again.

"Is Peter right?" she asks.

"About what?" he asks back.

"About you not having the capability to love?" Daphne asks. She looks up from her position, expecting an answer. She can hear a groan coming from the opposite side of the door.

"Don't tell me you're even listening to my idiot brother," Sylar says, and curses under his breath.

"Then who should I listen to? You never tell me anything," Daphne says.

"Are you kidding, Daph? I tell you _everything_," Sylar says. Daphne gets up at that, and presses her palms against the wooden door. She feels him on the opposite side, his back against the door.

"You're the only one that matters now. Natasha's psychotic, the others don't give a damn about me. You're the only I care about anymore. I've lost all sense of belonging, except when it comes to you," Sylar says. Maybe she's wrong; maybe he _is_ the person that says these things.

"Who am I supposed to listen to now?" Daphne asks.

"Me. You're supposed to listen to me. Not Peter. I'm your friend, you should listen to me," Sylar says. She can feel her heart breaking right then.

"Give me one good reason why," Daphne says.

Because…because I love you," Sylar finally says.

Daphne opens the door, and Sylar practically jumps up to face her. She embraces him, old tears welcoming the new ones that are streaming down her face. "I love you, too," she says.

* * *

Both of them know it's coming, it's like an eclipse shining over them, it's only time before it's a total one. Both of them don't talk about it. Daphne's too scared, and Sylar's too mad to open his mouth.

He knows he can't do anything about it, so both of them dodge the subject, which is easy for them. They find something to talk about over nothing. They talk about their lives, they talk about their families, they talk about everything they want in life. She feels like she's fifteen all over again, and being with Sylar is one huge sleepover that never ends.

He's still Sylar, even after they say they love each other. He's still sarcastic, but not so much anymore, he's still distant, but he's learning to take one step towards her every day, and he's still broken, but she's doing all she can to fix him.

He teaches her about watches, how each of them is tiny timepieces that he knows. He knows how fix them and break them all over again. He thinks they're beautiful. It's not easy to get Sylar to talk passionately about something; it seems watches are the only things that catch his attention.

She tells him about how wonderful it is to run as fast as possible. He doesn't think so; he thinks it's windy and not as great. But she tells him that running the only way to forget everything. If you teleport, you'll take just a millisecond to do it, but if there's super speed, it's different. It's slower; you can walk on water if you're careful, and it's wonderful. It's her fairytale, she's always wanted to escape, and running makes that possible.

They talk about everything, it's the only way to stop time and think it's just them in the world. They pass everyone, and she's in a jovial state, she can't even remember when she's been this happy. Probably before her father's death.

"What about Elle?" she asks suddenly.

"What _about_ Elle?" he shoots back.

"Do you ever think about her?" Daphne asks.

"All the time," Sylar says, looking at her.

Elle to Sylar is like her parents to her, they're distant memories of the past, but they keep coming back up to surface. They try to swim away from it, it just follows you.

"Did you love her?" Daphne asks.

"I don't know," Sylar answers.

She could've the one for him; Elle could've been the one for Sylar. Daphne wants him to be happy, and maybe Elle was the way, if she hadn't turned out to be a manipulative, lying Company bitch.

"What about you?" Sylar asks her.

"What_ about_ me?" Daphne asks.

"Do you have an Elle in your life?" Sylar asks.

"Nope, just me," Daphne looks down from his stare.

Sylar envelopes her hands in his, and says, "You have me."

* * *

Truth is, she doesn't know why she ran. Why she ran from him, the man she made him out to be. Her work well done, he's the one that killed two of their crew. But she's the one who ran. She always thought if anyone was going to break them, it would be him. But, no, it's her. She left, and she hates herself for doing it.

"I loved him, he was my best friend. I thought he was going to leave, but it was me, I was the one who left."

_Do you regret it?_

"Every minute of the day. I just want to see him, and I mean really see him. I can't spend every month looking through his frosted window knowing he won't look back."

_Do you think he would've done the same thing?_

"No, he would've stayed. I used to think that was the fake truth, but it's true now. He would've stayed."

_Any idea why you did it?_

"Maybe I was too scared. I pushed and pushed him to be a better person. The moment I see it, the good him, it's like everything's falling apart. Which doesn't make any sense, right?"

_Nothing makes sense anymore._

"Seconded."

_If he came here, and told you he wanted to see you again, would you let him?_

"Absolutely. If he ever comes looking, I'm always here for him."

_Good to know, Daphne. _

"We should go now."

_Yeah, we should._

* * *

A/N: Please please review! I need the critisizm. Virtual Milo-shaped cookies if you review!

Next UP: Peter and Molly

-Aly


	3. Just A Dream

**A/N: **I know I said Peter and Molly, but I just got a little carried away. Plus who doesn't lurve Paire???

Enjoy, my minions!**

* * *

**

**Snapshots**

**Part Forever: Peter and Claire**

It's two o'clock in the morning, and everything seems to be falling apart for you. It's three days after the love of your life died, and it's two days away from his funeral.

His estranged brother is sleeping on the couch, snoring happily, having the capability to sleep, which you don't have at the moment.

You miss him, the feeling is gut-wrenching, and you're basically wrought with misery. It's been like this ever since he died, you've forgotten your life. Suicide attempts aren't going to make it all better, they're just going to hurt you more. But you try.

It's a grave travesty, like you've lost your heart and he took it along with him. Sometimes you can see him, lurking around the shadows, in the eyes of his brothers, in the hearts of his friends.

It's gotten to the point where you can't go to sleep without thinking about him, and, because of that, you can't go to sleep at all. The dreams are haunting, but it's not like they're stopping. So you cross your arms, Claire Bennet, because it's all gone anyway.

All you have are your memories, and they're staring back at you with an empty heart.

* * *

He's the one to pick her from the airport. Nathan's too busy with his newfound political duties and Heidi's still wrapping her mind around the fact her husband has an illegitimate daughter hiding around in Texas.

But Peter's more than happy to pick up his niece. He's taken the day off from his newest dying patient, an old man named Roy Jacobsen. Luckily, he doesn't have an attractive daughter he could fall in love with.

The airport is crowded, packed with people with signs for their loved ones or passengers made up of tourists that keep flocking inside NYC. Claire's own sign was made in a few hours, scribbled on them with markers and plastered on stickers from old books.

It was done a few hours ago, Molly did it with him; it seems the GPS system has taken a liking to Claire, despite the fact she's never really met her. But, through Peter's talking about her, she feels like she knows her.

Molly's perched comfortably on Peter's shoulders, holding up the sign. Her presence isn't against his will, he invited her. He figured he needed the company, plus Mohinder's swamped anyway.

"Do you see her?" Peter asks the girl, taking the higher view. Peter can see nothing, everybody's blocking him. The Hispanic man in front of him is more than distracting, there's no hope of him ever finding his niece in this mess.

"Nope," Molly says, shaking her head. "I could GPS her if you want, it might be easier."

"Don't. We know she's here, we just don't know where she_ really_ is. Just keep looking okay, Mol?" Peter says.

"Roger that," Molly says, her eyes continuing to scan through the crowd. "Ooh! Pretty blonde, dead ahead!"

Peter looks at where Molly's pointing, and, given, there she is. Claire's looking just as lost as he was, but he can see her now. She's as pretty as always, her blonde hair curling down, but she looks happier, brighter, and he can concur. The last time they saw each other, Peter's was burnt, her father was just as bad, but her blood cured him, after an experimental trial. She seems more calm, more knowledgeable, more Claire.

Peter grins widely and cradles Molly who's still faithfully holding on to the sign. They pass through crowds of people, but, even so, there's no denying Claire's seen him, too.

Uncle and niece lock eyes through the crowd, and, as soon as he's in her sights, Claire runs towards his estranged uncle, her hero. She drops her bag simultaneously as Peter puts Molly to the ground. The little girl watches the scene that's unraveling before her, Claire running towards him, and then finally embracing Peter.

Peter eventually picks Claire up so that the cheerleader's feet are inches off the ground and she giggles as he does so. Molly can almost swear she can hear violins play in the background as she inspects them. She's always been the observant girl, so she observes. And what she stumbles upon is unconditional care, and undeniable love.

* * *

Claire doesn't really fit in. It isn't a surprise, she knows how weird she looks in the collage. She's a blonde girl in the midst of beautiful dark-haired people; she's a Bennet in a sea of Petrellis. The scenario's completely different for her.

Back in Texas, she has to wait for breakfast, then comes the beckon calls of waffles, and the smell drifting from the kitchen to her, but here, it's instant. She wakes up and there's her breakfast.

In Texas, she knows everybody and anybody-she's a popular girl, anyway-but, here, everyone just smiles politely at her, but then turning back to their partner and asking, "Who is she?" She doesn't blame them: she's a new face, and they don't need to know her.

It takes some time for the Petrellis to adjust to her, to mark her as their own, because they all know she doesn't really belong there. Nathan's not really there to give a damn, but his wife is nice. But Claire can see it; it's out of courtesy or an apologetic act on her husband's part, who can't be there to do the same thing.

Her half-brothers are easy, they're just kids anyway. She can lure them with candy or whatever it is they want. But she feels different from them, that she has different skin from them, as much as their blood is the same.

But there is one person that adjusts to Claire just fine, and that person being Peter. Again, not really a surprise to her, that she wakes up every morning and there he is treating her like she's always lived here.

"You okay?" he asks her now.

They're at the kitchen table but everyone's gone anyway. The boys are at school-she's starting next week-Nathan's at work, and Heidi, well Heidi's always a mystery to her. But what matters is that it's only Peter and Claire at home, just the two of them. She hasn't really gotten around to hanging out with Peter, something's always up.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Claire answers with the slightest of smiles on her lips. "Let's do something today," she decides.

Peter puts his elbow on the table, his hand leaning on his cheek. He's an attractive man; she has to give him that, with those bangs, and those puppy brown eyes that just look into you.

Plus it doesn't hurt that he is a little ripped around the edges. Stop, Claire, this is your uncle, for God's sake, is what goes through her head. Right, uncle.

"Meaning what exactly?" Peter asks, looking straight into her eyes.

She doesn't know what it is, but when he looks at her, she always feels safe. Is it because of Homecoming, and the events after? Or is it because they're estranged parts of a dysfunctional family? She can't decide, but she figures it's a bit of both.

"Meaning, Uncle Peter," Claire smiles-she knows he hates it when she calls him that. "I just want to hang out, you know, quality time."

"We're having quality time right here, Claire. We're the only two in the house," Peter waves his hand around the empty room.

"But we're not doing anything, are we? Look, I have an idea about what we could do," Claire crosses her legs on her seat.

"Which is…?" Peter leans into her.

"You could take me out on a date," Claire smiles at him, and sees the change in his face. It's priceless.

"You're not serious, are you?" Peter asks.

"A little. Just take me out, as friends, as uncle and niece, I don't care. It's just that we've been through so much together, with Homecoming, and Sylar, and the bomb with the gunshot, but I still feel like I don't know you," Claire says with an exasperated sigh.

"Done," Peter smiles at her. God, she loves his smile. It's so cute, and she doesn't know anyone that can smile like that, which is a good thing.

"Done?" Claire asks.

"Yeah, done. I'm sorry if I didn't make an effort, but you're right. We barely know each other, and now that we're family, we can get the chance," Peter says. "So, Bennet, go get dressed. I'm gonna take you somewhere fun."

"Ooh, I'm intrigued, Petrelli," Claire says teasingly.

* * *

"So, Peter Petrelli, what do you do?" Claire asks, taking a lick out of her ice-cream.

They're under the shade of a bistro, they've just finished their lunch and this is their idea of a desert. Two ice-creams for two people, and they're enjoying their time. They're in the backyard of a homely bistro, and there aren't many people around, thankfully, because Claire's been asking non-stop for some display of powers.

So far, he's levitated her can of soda, rose up six inches off the ground, and turned himself invisible. She's amused, and entertained, she likes that she has a super-powered uncle.

Claire's amazing, despite the circumstances, but it seems to him that she's more than willing to forget everything that happened and move on. And she's doing it right now, with her hero. He feels flattered with the four-lettered word comes along, he feels like he finally accomplished something.

Whatever bad happens, he'll always be stuck with being Claire Bennet's hero, and it's not a bad thing anyway. He can think of worse things than being the man of admire to a beautiful 16-year-old girl.

"You mean besides exploding and saving damsels in distress?" Peter asks. Just by those words, Claire could feel her heart flutter a little, she feels special that she's the damsel.

"Yeah," she chuckles. "Besides the superhero nine yards."

"I'm a hospice nurse, actually," Peter takes another spoon of his ice-cream in a cup. Claire thinks it's sissy that he eats ice-cream out of a cup, but sue him for wanting his shirt to be clean.

"Hospice nurse? What's that?" the cheerleader asks, tilting her head.

"I take care of terminally ill patients," Peter says, and for a moment, he lets himself think about Charles Deveaux.

"Wow. That sounds really sweet of you, not a lot of people have that kind of patience," Claire smiles at him.

Yeah, Peter thinks. Here's to Claire for making him think about his job in a totally different light.

"Why'd you do it?" Claire asks him.

Oh, how he hates that question. It came up, more than a few times when he signed up for nursing school. Not med school, never med school, which made his father furious. Arthur Petrelli knew his son was greater than nursing school would ever do him. It wasn't just school, it was everything.

It seemed that wherever Peter Petrelli went, the question followed him like a shadow overhead. Why did he go on a wild goose chase to Odessa, Texas? Why did he jump off that roof in the first place? Even if the recipient is Claire Bennet, the girl he saved, his niece, his friend, he still hates the damned question.

So here comes the cliché, the biggest one in his life. Nathan says he uses it like an excuse. It's more like a reason to Peter. "I want to help people," Peter merely answers. Claire nods like a good girl, and gets back to finishing off her ice-cream.

"Peter, can I tell you something?" Claire asks.

"Sure, anything," Peter says, propping his elbows on the table.

"You know, at Homecoming, when I bumped into you in the hallway?" Claire asks, and her uncle nods. Of course he remembers-when it comes to Claire, he remembers everything.

"Well, I did it on purpose," Claire confesses. Wow, that sounds like a lame secret. But she's 16, she's still a girl, so he forgives her. And hopefully she forgives him for laughing.

"Stop, come on!" Claire smacks him square on the arm. "Look, I thought you were cute, and I just wanted to try my luck."

"You thought I was cute?" Peter leans in with a mocking smile, along with a matched look in his brown eyes.

"Yeah, that was embarrassing. Imagine my surprise to find out I actually fantasized about my uncle," Claire says, a red blush creeping onto her cheeks. If Peter wasn't a grown man, he would've done the same.

"You must think it's stupid and weird," Claire says.

"No, I don't. I think it's cute. Plus, we didn't know back then, it's only fair both of us to have our dreams and were caught off guard," Peter says, then figuring out what he just said.

"You…me?" Claire could merely say.

"You're an attractive young woman, Claire," Peter gives as an explanation. "How about we get home now?" He stands up, puts money on the table and takes out his hand for her to take.

"How exactly are we getting home?" Claire asks, taking his hand.

"Are you kidding? We're taking the Batmobile, or is swinging on webs more your thing?" Peter asks. "Oh, come on, Claire, I'm Peter Petrelli, I can do anything."

"Okay, now count me as scared," Claire says.

At that very moment, he takes her in his arms, embracing her, and putting his arm around her waist. She can feel a tingle go through her body, it's as if his hand is charged with electricity, and it pulses through her body. She looks up to Peter-her hero, her uncle-and she can see him staring back with a smile. Just like that, they're in the air, he's flying, and so is she.

* * *

School starts. It feels weird, and out of placed, and she doesn't feel right signing her name Bennet, because that'll only cause a stir. Peter vouched for her, telling Nathan and Angela that she's whoever she wants to be, and she wants to a Bennet.

So hell with it, Peter said. As much as she dislikes the feeling signing her name as a Bennet, well-rounded, good girl from Odessa, Texas, she feels happier when she does instead of Petrelli.

The first few weeks was okay, a few friends, she tried out for cheerleading, but she's happy it's Friday. Truth be told, she likes she's back to normal, back to worrying about overdue homework and obnoxious high school boys instead of gunshots and exploding men.

She doesn't need to worry about that anymore, Sylar's no longer a threat, and Peter's just as stable as he ever will be. She's normal now, living with her biological family, while her real one is back in Texas. She heard they moved. But it's Friday, and she's happy.

The reason? Her favorite uncle's picking her up today. It's their day today, because they've been so busy for the past five days. Claire's been harassed with assignments and homework, and when he comes home from work, she's sprawled on the couch with books and papers strewn about.

It still gives her a shiver when she wakes up and finds herself tucked in bed with sheets pulled up like a little girl. On rare occasions, she can sometimes still be on the couch, but her books are all packed away in the corner, and Peter's sleeping on the opposite chair.

Peter's amazing; he's her hero, her friend, her uncle. She still can't believe she's his niece, mostly because they look nothing alike. To Nathan, she has certain similarities, some features overlooked by the others, but when she inspects him, she can conclude she's very much his daughter.

But, to Peter, she can't really see any family resemblances between them. But, no, she must be overlooked, because of course he's her uncle, of course she's his niece, because as much as he is Nathan's kid brother, she's Nathan's daughter.

She thought her little crush on Peter would go away as soon as she found out they were related, but-hey hello!-it hasn't. She's screwed. What kind of person has a crush on their uncle? Their extremely hot, caring, loving, empathic, not to mention sexy uncle?

She's finally found the perfect man, the man who cares about her, not wanting to get in her pants one bit-she wouldn't complain if he wanted to-and he turns out to be her uncle. Her uncle who just happens to be pulling over with his car to her school.

Claire brushes away the inappropriate thoughts away from her mind and puts on her happy face which looks demented. The door automatically opens with her presence-his TK, no doubt-and she rides shotgun next to a smiling Peter. "Hey, Claire," he says, making a turn.

"Hi," Claire says. It sounds oddly weird to be oddly normal.

"How's my favorite girl's day at school?" leave it to Peter to make an oddly-normal question to have Claire's heart flutter just a little.

"Normal," Claire crosses her legs, putting her bag in between her legs.

"Normal being the code word for boring?" Peter asks.

"You know me so well," Claire smiles at him. "So what are we doing today?"

"We are going home," Peter says.

"You do know how to spoil a girl," Claire chuckles at him.

"Everyone's away at the moment, it'll just be you and me. I'm sure we can do something together. Watch some movies, order in," he says.

An hour later, they're sprawled on the floor; backs leaned against the living room couch of the mansion, with an opened box of pizza in front of them. Peter's sitting cross-legged while Claire's legs are facing the other way, putting them on Peter's lap.

Spiderman, they're watching, and Claire can't help but point out the similarities between Peter and Peter Parker. It's easy to point out the name, and that Simone was Peter's Gwen Stacey and he is still keeping a look out for his Mary Jane.

"When did you first find out you were special?" Claire asks.

It's a question that has been on the tip of her tongue for weeks, because she never really found someone that was like her, and it was only fitting she ask Peter, the first person she found.

"I guess I always knew. I never really fit in anywhere, I was a bit different, but when I really decided was when I jumped off the roof," Peter explains, looking at her, averting his eyes from the screen.

"So basically jumping off roofs is your hobby?" Claire asks with a smile. She gets an idea, like a mental bulb going off in her. It was lighting over her head, and she looks at Peter with a mischievous look playing on her face.

"What?" Peter asks.

"Let's do it," Claire says. "Jump off the roof, I mean, or some high surface."

"What? Why?" Peter looks taken back; though Claire thinks it's nothing offensive at all. Besides, both of them can heal, bruises and blood are nothing, just remote worries that shouldn't even be worries to two indestructible people.

"You just said no one was here, and no one would worry anyway," Claire says. "Please, Uncle Peter?"

She looks at him with her signature puppy dog eyes that work every time with her dad when she was a kid. Lo behold, she ends up with her teddy bear collection.

"Fine," Peter gives up. "But you are holding on to me, young lady."

"Yes, sir," Claire says.

She gets up excitedly, and walks so Peter will follow. They're not going to the roof, it's too irrational and it stands out too much. There's an abandoned room by the side of the house, it's not occupied, and it's high enough inside the house. There's a window inside it, leading to a miniature roof.

"You know I never found out what this room was for," Peter says, looking around the room, dust-covered and unused.

Claire doesn't even want to say anything. The people who live here are Petrellis, and she has doubts. They're deceitful, lying, manipulative people, that is, except Peter. She honestly cannot believe Peter's one of them and that she is, too. They're the white lambs in the room of black sheep.

Claire goes out the window, new, afternoon air filling her lungs as she does. Peter follows right behind her. He outstretches his arm for her to take, and she does. Both of them trudge towards the ledge of the roof, and Claire holds on to Peter's waist. She can't believe she suggested this.

"Ready?" Peter asks her.

"As I'll ever be," Claire says, and feels Peter's arm move to that they're at her waist and they're completely embracing each other. Before she knows it, they're free-falling. It's exhilarating, and utterly _awesome_.

"Oof!" Claire says when they drop to the ground.

Peter laughs, and, soon, she's joining him. She resets her leg, and the bruises go away instantly. Once all their bones are fine and called for, both of them just lie down on the grass.

"Wow," Peter says, putting his arms on his stomach.

"I know, right?" Claire says.

"That's like an all-time high. I don't think I'll ever need drugs," Peter says.

Claire laughs at her statement, not because of the drugs, but because it's so true. People think jumping off roofs is suicide, but, for them, the two indestructible people of the Petrelli household, it's amazing.

"I almost want to do that again," Peter says. "But we shouldn't. It's gonna be real messy if we do it again."

"Is it gonna be the last time?" Claire asks.

"No," Peter merely says. "Falling like that, knowing we're gonna be okay, it's exhilarating. Plus, doing all that with you, the only person I know that can heal, and knowing you're enjoying it as much as I am, it's a thrill, and a rush."

Claire feels his hand shift and then feels it on hers. Warmth surges from his hand to hers, but Peter doesn't seem to feel it. He's looking at the sky; watching the clouds pass them, see the world as it always has been. He's the dreamer, the one who drifts away, and she admires him for it.

Always special, always different. He makes this curse sound like a blessing, that it's okay to be special; it's okay to jump off a roof and think of it as an exhilarating event. How he does it, she doesn't know, but whatever it is, it's a blessing, a miracle that she's found someone like Peter.

* * *

They grow closer and closer over the months. It's gotten to point that Peter doesn't even have to read her mind to know what's thinking. It's gotten to point where Claire can say, "Oh, Peter doesn't like that…" to their family members. Even if they're his family members, and they're the ones that spent their lives with him, not her.

It's so normal for the family now, for the family to merely shrug it off whenever Claire's not in the house, because, obviously, she's with Peter. It doesn't bother the family when Claire says she's sleeping over at Peter's, they don't even bat an eyelash.

That is, all except Nathan. They're getting too touchy-feely, and the reporters are getting buzzed from them. The reporters are getting a story from all the uncle-niece closeness.

He's done fine with them, telling them that they're just family, and they're best friends, nothing more. No need for a nation-wide sweep saying that Peter Petrelli and Claire Bennet were in an incestuous relationship. But what Nathan's really worried about is Peter. He knows his kid brother; he loves just as easily as he breaks.

"Hey, Pete," Nathan says one afternoon. It's after lunch, and Peter and Claire are playing with the boys before Peter goes off to work.

"Yeah?" Peter looks up from the kids.

"Can I talk to you for a bit?" Nathan asks, nudging his brother to the outside of the play room.

"Yeah, sure," Peter turns back to his niece and nephews. "Play nice."

As soon as they're out of the kids' sight, Peter asks his brother, "What's up?"

"I'm getting weird questions from the reporters, Pete," Nathan says.

"About what?" Peter asks absent-mindedly.

"About you and Claire," Nathan says. "They've seen you and Claire out and about, Pete. And these people are vicious, willing to break a family for a story. Just tell me they're wrong."

"Is this about our family or your career?" Peter crosses his arms. Not again.

"Our family, Pete. This is important. I just need you to confirm to the press, so that they won't be up our asses again about this," Nathan says. "Can you do that?"

"Sure I can. Nothing's going on between me and Claire, Nate. We're just family, uncle and niece, friends. We're not sleeping together if that's what the press wants to know," Peter says, his arms still crossed but his eyes averted from his brother's gaze. "We don't touch each other like that-_ever_. I'm not stupid, I know my limits."

Nathan pats his brother on the shoulder, and says, "I'm glad you do. Now I'll go finish up some stuff. You'll be here for dinner?"

"Yeah," Peter nods.

He enters the play room again, and sits on the floor, cross-legged while Claire helps assemble the train set Monty's set his eyes on. Nathan watches from the glass window, and sees something in Claire's eyes that set him off. She's looking at Peter with complete adoration, a look she uses only when it comes to Peter.

Claire leans back, and puts her head on Peter's shoulder. Her uncle shifts his arm so that it's around Claire and he kisses the top of her head as they watch her half-brothers get amused with their train set.

* * *

Claire has two birthday parties. Seventeen and she has two birthday parties. One of them organized by Nathan and Angela, a swanky one with clinking glasses and people that she doesn't know and people who don't know her.

It's for her to 'socialize', per se. but she doesn't. She rarely moves from her standing position near the refreshments table. People greet her with masked smiles, and she does the same. They acquaint her with their son, handsome, well put together boys that smile at her and take another swig of their drinks.

They're all pretenders, actors to this stage Nathan put together for her. But Claire doesn't know the first thing about playing mask-face with these people, even if she is a Petrelli. She doesn't fit in, the boys are well and fine, just not what she's looking for.

"Hey, stranger," someone whispers to her ear. She turns around, the material of her dress swishing as she does, and sees Peter.

"Hi yourself," Claire smiles at him.

"You look wonderful, Claire," Peter says, inspecting her.

Her blonde hair is teased and perfect, hanging on her sun-kissed shoulders. Her dress is emerald green and makes her eyes more distinct that it already is. Niki helped her choose, the blonde mother making a trip from Vegas to be here when Claire turns seventeen.

"You clean up pretty well yourself," Claire says, seeing him in a tux.

"How's it feel being seventeen?" Peter asks her, taking another sip from his drink.

"I'm not seventeen yet, Peter. I'm only seventeen when I have a party better than this," Claire remarks.

"Wait till tomorrow, then. I'm the one in charge for the party," he says.

"What can I look forward to?" Claire asks.

"A bunch of super-powered people celebrating your birthday," Peter smiles at her.

A song comes over, it's remotely familiar, but she can't place the tune just yet. Peter places his glass on the table, and takes Claire's as well. He walks to the dance floor and hands out his hand for her to take.

"Care to dance, m'lady?" Peter bows, a comedic affect that makes Claire chuckle. She nods at him, and Peter takes her by surprise by taking her immediately by the waist.

Peter looks down on her, and Claire places her hands around Peter's neck while his hands are on her waist. He places a gentle kiss on the top of her head and she shivers under his touch. There's electricity, a heat that pulses between them.

The feeling is something new for Peter, but it feels good, and it feels right. The feeling's meant to be there, hovering over both of them like an undoubted fact. He almost forgets that she's his niece, and moves his hands lower to uncharted territory.

Claire looks up to him, her head previously placed gently on his chest, but her face doesn't speak of doubt, or fear, it's a look of determination. Claire moves back to his chest, and she breathes on him, the warmth of her skin almost radiating him, killing him to the point of no return.

He's not supposed to feel this way. He knows she feels it, too. It feels so good. They move further away from the dance floor so that no one sees them like this. They don't say anything; they just stand there, Peter's hand placed on her waist, though he wants more, he _needs_ more.

Claire takes away her hands from his neck, and he's afraid that she doesn't want this. But those doubts are thrown out the window when she places her hands on his chest. Her fingers soon roam around his chest and it feels so good. It's so warm, so wrong that it's so right.

Peter dips down and breathes on her ear, almost nibbling the sensitive flesh. He can hear Claire ellicit a small moan from the back of her throat.

_Wrong._

_Wrong._

_Right. _

"Hey, Pete!" someone interrupts them, slicing through their moment like a knife. "Pictures!" Nathan hollers.

Claire and Peter look at each other, as if trying to make sense of everything, but they go to Nathan's side nonetheless. As the flashbulbs go, and everyone's smiling, Peter reads Claire's mind. _That never happened_, goes through her head. For once, he listens to her. That never happened, and it never again will.

* * *

Peter Petrelli's always been the observant man, he sees when others ignore. So it's not wrong, or against his nature, to observe his niece, Claire. She's a pretty girl, beautiful, in fact, but that's a fact. He shouldn't keep doing this.

He shouldn't keep looking at her, remembering what happened on that dance floor, wanting it more than he ever wanted anything. He shouldn't notice that her blonde hair is prettiest when it's sitting down on her shoulders, not in a ponytail. He shouldn't notice her eyes are so different; they're a different kind of green than he's seen.

Peter Petrelli shouldn't notice how attractive she looks in tight clothing, and he shouldn't be aroused when they share a familial hug, because normal uncles don't get hard by their niece's touch. He's fucked up.

Today's her seventeenth birthday party, the one he organized, but he can't think straight anymore. He's eating absent-mindedly, he talks to Mohinder with no spirit, and everyone notices, too. Claire's moved on, she's forgotten what happened, but he hasn't.

24 hours passed, and she's back to normal, she's back to her normal, happy self, but here he is, mellow and down. It's like it's never happened, like she's not the one who roamed her hands around his chest, like she's not the one who moved forward instead of taking two steps back when she should have.

He shouldn't be mad at her; it's good that she's forgotten, it'll only make it easier. But he hasn't, Peter had a sleepless night. He wants things to be normal, that's what he's striving for, to get back to normal. God knows Claire has gotten there, taken the detour he couldn't take.

He wants to forget. He wants to forget just how good it felt, he wants to forget whatever normal uncles shouldn't think about. So he tries. He tries.

"Hey there, seventeen," Peter smiles at her.

"Hi," Claire says, sipping her drink. "This is great, Peter."

"Thanks," Peter says looking down from her smile.

This is normal. He's getting there. He's getting closer and closer throughout the course of the party, he's getting there. The car doesn't stop for one minute for distractions, all he needs is normal. Peter's so close.

When the guests say it's time to go home, he truly thinks he's succeeded. When the last guests-Molly and Mohinder-go home to Brooklyn, he sighs out of accomplishment. He thinks he did it. He's done it, everything's normal.

Claire's on the couch, tired from entertaining her guests and celebrating her seventeenth and Peter's proud to admit that he doesn't feel anything anymore. Just like it's supposed to be. No heat, nothing.

"Thank you for today, Peter," Claire says as he sits down next to her. "I had a great time."

"No problem," Peter says, smiling at her.

She's so tired; her eyes are so droopy, indicating it's time for her to get to bed. He carries her up to her room, and envelopes her with her sheets of blankets.

"Happy Birthday, Claire," Peter says, kissing her forehead.

"Hey, Peter?" Claire asks when Peter starts to the door, ready to leave her sleeping in the darkness.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"I love you," Claire says.

Crash. That's what he hears. His mind colliding with Claire's, it's what he hears inside of him. A sudden, catastrophic, crash. But he doesn't make a point to get up from the event, he's watching the crash, not wanting to get up and reset his bones.

"I love you, too, Claire," Peter says.

* * *

There will be a volume two for Paire. Mostly because I haven't even started yet! Expect it, at latest, next week. Read and review!

-Aly


	4. Chemistry of a Car Crash

**A/N: It's so overdue!!! Please don't kill me!!**

**Enjoy

* * *

**

Snapshots

Hi, Claire. No, you're not dreaming or hallucinating, it's really me. I don't know if you can hear me, but I hope you can. You're beautiful, Claire, a grown woman now, not a girl anymore.

You're a mother now; it's a title that you wear with pride. I wish I was there. God, how I wish I was there with you, holding you close, making sure you're okay, like I always have. It's just a dream. Because I'm here, and you're there, away from me.

It's not supposed to be like this, I'm supposed to be with you, you're supposed to be with me. I want to breathe again, Claire. I'm here but I feel suffocated. It's like you're my air, and, with you gone, nothing means anything anymore.

How long have I been gone? I'm sure you've taken count. I can't, this place doesn't have numbers or figures. I want to live; Claire, only I can't. I'm gone.

If I try really hard, I can almost touch you. Can you feel that? It's not a brush of air, it's me. I'm here, Claire. I never left.

* * *

Time passes them. The second hand of the clock never stops moving, and months blend in, days seem monotonous, everything seems to be normal again. Peter's back to worrying about his patients and being his normal empathic self, trying to control his powers, making sure no explosion goes off again.

Claire is at school, seventeen and happy, going to college soon. She's a popular girl; of course, cheerleading can do that to a girl. She's the stereotypical blonde with the cheerleading abilities and cute little perky smile. She doesn't mind being stereotyped, being labeled in someone's head, because it's better than them knowing who she really is.

She was hoping that she would find a Zach once she arrived in New York, but, sadly, her dreams were crushed and thrown out the window. No one wanted to be her Zach, but everyone seemed to want to be her Jackie.

Claire hears the bell ring and everyone around her begins to pack up their things and get out of the classroom.

"Hey, Claire," someone says.

Claire looks up from her desk and sees her friend, redheaded, beautiful, Jane with books against her chest. A fellow cheerleader, thus explaining the blue uniform clinging to her body.

"Hey, Jane," Claire smiles at her.

"A bunch of us are going to hang out. My brother's picking me up, if you want to come along," Jane says.

The way she's saying it it's like she's the bitch of the story, but, come on, it's Jane, she's the sweetest girl and Claire honestly doesn't know why she hangs out with those friends. But she's doing the same so she can't really judge and point fingers at innocent Jane.

"Nah, it's fine. My uncle and I are planning to do something today," Claire says, slinging her bag over her back and walking out the door.

"It's weird that you and your uncle are so close," Jane chuckles.

"He's my best friend," Claire shrugs.

"Alright, my car's here, I'll see you," her friend says and proceeds to wave Claire goodbye as a notable black car pulls over.

It starts raining, small droplets of water dropping onto her blonde hair and the bag seated on her lap, then it starts getting heavy. She runs to the shade of the school roof, and, if it wasn't enough, her bag becomes her umbrella for the water that preventing her view from seeing if Peter's car has come to pick her up or not.

Claire Bennet hates the rain; it seems that nothing good happens in it. Hopefully today will be different, be the dent in the streak. But it's going to be fine. Peter's coming, he always comes. Maybe sometimes in an unorthodox fashion (flying, teleportation etc.) but he always comes.

Peter wouldn't desert her on purpose; it would have to be a good reason, a perfect excuse so she won't rant about it in weeks to come. He'll come. A few other students were still at school, embracing themselves for warmth. She's doing the same.

"Hey you're Claire Bennet, right?" someone asks.

She turns to see who's asking her and sees a boy. Her class, she remembers her, dishwasher-blonde hair, one of the jocks. Drew something, that's his name. He's always with his friend, a redheaded guy, similarly built, handsome and coming from respected families.

"Yeah, that's me," she answers nonetheless.

As much as her blood is claimed as a Petrelli's, she's always been a Bennet-act polite; you don't know anything that they know. It's an unspoken rule around the house, that's why Noah Bennet is such a good Company agent, because he's good at lying and playing deceit with the people he loves.

"You want a ride home? The rain's gonna be a while, you should be getting home to that family of yours," Drew's redheaded friend suggests, shrugging his shoulders like an innocent good boy.

"It's fine, you guys. My uncle's picking me up. I wouldn't want to worry him," Claire smiles politely at them.

They're looking her from up down, inspecting her like an insect under the microscope. She feels demeaned and feels as though her whole body is suddenly filled to the brim with grime. Her reason now sounds like an excuse, which is never good.

Claire turns away from them, but still feels the glaring stare of them on her. Like laser rays that are burning into the flesh of her very being. She doesn't feel so good about this.

"Now, come on, Claire, don't be a spoilsport," Drew says and soon his hands are on her body.

She doesn't turn to slap him, because God knows she wants to, she just walks away from them. Away from the comfort of the New York school and away from the stares and glares that she's getting and into the outside world that's raining.

She doesn't even care it's raining because she's been through worse. It's pouring heavily now, so much that she can't see anything through the drops that keeps falling on her face and wetting her hair.

"Why you running, Claire?" Drew taunts her.

She doesn't answer, she sees a threat and it's in her nature to not to say anything when she sees a threat.

Drew's friend grabs Claire's ass hastily and she turns around as an impulse and slaps him. He doesn't run, he takes it as an opportunity. Drew overpowers her, and, before she knows it, she's pinned against the wall of the alley, with two looming faces in front of her, and the hard brick hurting her back.

She turns away from them, and whimpers out of fear. No, she's not going to let this happen. Not again.

"Don't be scared," Drew whispers into her ear. She shivers from his touch and tries to back away from them. Failed attempt.

"Hands off her!" someone yells.

The voice is a familiarity to her, and, instantly, a comfort. She whimpers, doesn't look at her savior. But she can hear a body hitting the brick wall then an angry voice.

"If you touch her again, I will rip you apart and feed your body to the dogs," he says. "And don't think I can, I can, and I will. And if you care for yourself, you will run. And you will not touch Claire ever again. You hear me?"

"Yes," she can hear Drew tremble.

Then Claire could feel arms wrapping around her, and shook away the touch. When she looks up, she sees Peter. His comforting, caring, loving face that she can't say no to, it's Peter. They don't say anything, it's probably better.

* * *

"We've got to talk about it sooner or later," Peter says, leaning against her doorway. They're back home, safe and sound, clean.

Traces of tears and grime are gone from her face, but embarrassment and sadness are still imprinted on her cheeks, like a stain that won't go away. Claire's in her room, sitting on the bed, hands on her lap like a good girl, her body wrapped in pink, fuzzy material of her bath robe. She's clean and wet, she should be good. She should be happy. She's not.

"I choose later," Claire says, not looking at Peter's face. She's looking down on the floor, as if too ashamed to face Peter. Peter, her hero-countless time, accounted for this one, as well-her friend, her uncle. She sees him shift, his shadow on the wall move slightly so it's standing right in front of her; the looming ghost she won't stare at.

"Claire," he says.

The way he says her name, it's not normal for an uncle to say his niece's name like that, with care, gentle so that she doesn't break. She feels his hand reach up to touch her chin and pull it up to look at him.

"Claire," he says again like it's the remedy to her sadness.

One word and she's back to being Claire, one word and she's okay, she's back to loving him like a good little niece as allowed by law and the glances of their superiors. No, she shouldn't get to that. She doesn't want to, she shouldn't. Not again.

Before Claire knows it, her eyes are welling up, remembering everything and anything she should've left behind along with her life. Peter catches it before she wants him to and he moves next to her, his arms around her. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to, she tells him anyway. She always does.

"A few days before Homecoming, we had this keg party, me and this quarterback thought it would be fun to have some drinks," she says into Peter's arm. "He kissed me, and then he wanted more."

Peter stays silent, but Claire feels his thumb rub her arm in a comforting gesture. "He tried to force me, but I…" Claire trembled in her voice. "I ended up dead instead. I woke up on an autopsy table with my chest cut open."

"Claire…" Peter says, holding her tighter to his body, as if making sure she doesn't go, or break, because he's there. He's always there. "It's okay."

"Thanks, Peter," Claire says, looking up to him. "Not just for today, for everything."

"No, thank you, Claire. I don't know what I would've done without you," Peter says.

It's like a little confession, she hopes it means what she wants it to mean. But it can never mean it.

"I love you, Claire, and I'm going to do all I can to protect you. Everything, you hear me?" Peter says to her. She nods because she knows. Yeah, he's going to be there.

* * *

December nears them, the looming month of holy joy and snowy carols heard from the inside. The month of joy, or as Claire remembers it, is filled with wreaths on their doors and oatmeal cookies all the while singing Christmas songs under her breath.

But all the while, she has never experienced the snow. Her half-brothers have, singing White Christmas and actually experiencing it, too. She's jealous. Of little boys, and the fact that they grew up with the whole good childhood nine yards. It's not as if Claire hasn't had a good Christmas, she's had wonderful Christmases, only the first day.

The next, her father's gone back to his illusive job as a paper salesman. But she has better this year. Peter, for one, and the fact it's probably going to start snowing very, very soon.

Last night, she called her parents in California (like she said-they moved) and for the first time in her entire life, she actually felt misplaced in the Bennet family. She feels happier here, she feels, for some strange reason yet to be explained, home here.

Claire groans in her sleep, trying to recollect the remnants of her dreams, but it's too late. The ringing of the alarm clock has woken her up. Alarm clocks are items designed for the destruction of the human soul, that's what it's for. Why did she set it again?

Her eyes flutter and look directly to her window. At this, she remembers why she's been so excited. The window looks like it came out straight out of a holiday card, signed, sealed, delivered to the Petrelli household.

Beautiful, it's utterly beautiful. Claire gets out of bed and wipes her sleeve on the window, seeing the view front row. Her insides shiver from excitement. She feels five once again, but, then again, when she was five, she didn't really get snow to play with.

She puts on a robe to cover her early morning indecency to her family members and goes to Peter's room, practically skipping from happiness. The door isn't locked, so Claire takes the liberty. He doesn't snore, which is a trait she appreciates whenever she's sleeping over his room or his apartment. But she's also focused on another thing. He's not exactly wearing a shirt.

He's sleeping on his stomach, so his back is to her. Claire's seen him without his shirt, of course she has, they've gone swimming in the pool numerous times that she's grown accustomed to it all, but not like this.

Whenever she's sleeping in the same room as him, he's the gentleman for wearing a t-shirt when he goes to bed and before he bids her goodnight. But this time is different. How? She doesn't exactly say. But his breath rises and falls, and he seems too serene, so in peace that Claire's almost guilty to wake him up for her first snow day. But the guilt goes away once she steals another glance to the frosted window.

She sits next to Peter's sleeping body and pokes him playfully at the ribs. She does it again and he groans at her.

"Hey, Peter," Claire says and leans in to blow a raspberry on his neck.

"Lemme alone," Peter mumbles.

"But, Peter, it's snowing," Claire says in her best whiny voice.

"It always snows," Peter groans again when he turns to face her.

"Doesn't in Texas," Claire coos.

"You're such a kid," Peter says and closes his eyes again. "We can always go later."

"It's not the same," she says. "Please, Uncle Peter?"

"Fine," Peter grumbles. "Go get dressed."

"Thank you, Peter," Claire says when Peter gets up from his bed.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Peter says, ruffling his hair and realizing he's shirtless in front of his niece.

Claire smiles mischievously and skips out of the room. Fifteen minutes later, she's dressed in the whole snow attire, Monty and Simon by her side looking cute with their snow wear, both of them color coordinated with their half-sister.

"Hey, Claire?" Monty asks his sister.

"Yeah?" she asks back.

"Why do you look so excited?" he asks.

Claire chuckles a little before answering him, "Because I haven't been in the snow before."

"Really? Never?" Simon asks her.

"Nope, never," Claire answers them with a sweet smile to boot.

"Well, I guess we'll make this day eventful," Peter says from behind her. "Won't we, boys?"

"Yup," both boys answer simultaneously.

"Come on, then," Peter says with a big, silly grin, opening the door to the snowy world outside.

It's beautiful, snow still falling from the heavens, and the other houses sparkled with garlands of lights, everything looked perfect. Everything looked so beautiful, and perfect, and everything else she's been missing.

"How's it looking, Texas?" Peter asks her playfully.

"It's beautiful," Claire smiles up to him.

"It isn't much until you play with it," he says.

"Sounds like a plan," Claire says, balling up snow in her fist.

"And so it begins!" Peter says.

He dodges her snowballs each time, by telekinesis, or plain reflexes. "That isn't fair!" Claire points out.

"Fine, you can throw one at me, and I won't dodge. How does that sound?" Peter shrugs his shoulders innocently to her.

"I've got a better idea," Claire gives him one of her signature smiles, this one cast in a mischievous state. "Ready, boys?"

Then come the pummels of snow hitting Peter, along with the shrieks and squeals of little boys and his niece. "Now that's just plain cruel," Peter pouts playfully to his niece and nephews.

"Hey, she promised to pay us 5 bucks," the oldest of the boys says with a smile.

"Boys, come in!" Peter then hears his sister-in-law calling in her sons.

"But, Mom, we just started!" Monty argues. "It's just for hot chocolate, then you can go out again," Heidi points out. She comes into light, even with a sweater, she's still shivering and aching to go back in.

"Peter, Claire?" Heidi asks. "Hot chocolate?"

"In a few, okay, Heidi? We've got some more playing to get over with," Peter says to the dark-haired woman. Heidi shrugs with a smile and ushers her two young sons inside.

"Really? We do?" Claire looks at Peter.

"No, not really. I'm pretty much tired already, since you gracefully interrupted my beauty sleep. I just wanted to spend some alone time with my favorite girl," Peter says to her.

"You don't need any beauty sleep, you're already pretty," Claire teases him. "Maybe we could just sit on the snow. That's not such a tiring job for my aging uncle, now, is it?"

Peter chuckles as both of them lie on the snow-coated floor together. This is when Claire truly appreciates the snow. The soft, fluffy surface both of them are sitting on, it's serene, and the fact of it's just them outside, while the entire family is inside enjoying hot chocolate and warm fuzziness, makes it even nicer.

Claire scoots closer to Peter's body, feeling cold, and, without telling him, or making the first move, he wraps his arms around her, instantly warming her up. It's the perfect moment, the snow falling on their faces, arms wrapped around each other.

If this was a movie, perfect, no monumental problems, she would've kissed him, she would've told him exactly how she felt, the feelings she's been trying to push out of her for weeks, months because he's her uncle, and she's his niece.

Claire wants him to read her mind, so that she'll saving herself the trouble, and he'll know without a single word uttered from her breath. She wants him to know so badly, because at least he'll know.

And he'll know what to do, he'll know what right thing to do, because he's Peter, and he always knows. He'll know what to do with this feeling, itching to burst out of her soul, and get on Peter. He'll know what to do when Claire tells him she loves him, in a way no one should love their blood relative.

"We should get inside," Peter says out of nowhere.

"Oh, come on, Peter, just a few more. I like it like this. It makes me normal and happy, just sitting here, with you," Claire looks up to him with an eager face.

"No, we should go inside," Peter says, unwrapping her of his arms.

"Peter--?" Claire asks, confused as the man gets inside the house.

* * *

Peter is trying to recollect himself. He shouldn't have read her mind, he shouldn't have, never should've heard those things, because it's the eternal death of him. It's killing him to the point of no return, to hear the very things that he's been dying to hear, ever since her seventeenth birthday party, to hear that she's falling inside the same sinful dream he's been in for months.

She feels the same. It's been days, and Claire still knows nothing. And Peter's planning to keep it that way. It's not right, and both of them will get over it eventually, she faster him, since she thinks it's just a silly little crush. He's not so sure about himself, though.

Maybe he should keep away from Claire for some time, but that would indicate something's wrong, and he doesn't want her to be suspicious. It's fine. It's fine, really.

"You look cute with that hat on," Claire says, smiling on the Christmas hat on Peter's head. They're in the mall, shopping for gifts for their family. It's supposed to be fun, but Peter can't really wrap his mind around the concept.

"Why, thank you," Peter smiles at her.

"Are you okay?" Claire asks, not looking at him, choosing instead to check out the other things the store has on the shelf.

"Yeah, I'm fine. What makes you think I'm not okay?" Peter asks her.

"Nothing, you just seem different," Claire shrugs her shoulders. "Come on, there's nothing here. Let's just go for some lunch."

"As you wish, my lady," Peter says. Almost instantly,

Claire links their arms like teenage girls. Peter doesn't mind, it's Claire anyway. He wants to take the hat off, but Claire insists on wearing it until they get home. Suddenly, he gets a tug on his sleeve. Peter turns around and sees a little girl, no more than six or seven with a teddy bear clutched in her arms.

"Excuse me, mister?" she asks Peter. The empath crouches down so he's eye-level to the girl. She has brown hair, tied in ponytails, a sweet face, very, very cute.

Peter looks up from the girl to see a young woman, disheveled and ruffled up from the tiring job of mothering the little girl in front of him.

"I'm sorry. The Santa was on a break, and she just wanted to…I'm not sure what she wanted to do actually," the young mother shrugged.

"It's fine," Peter says to the woman. He looks back to the girl and asks, "What is it, sweetheart?"

He's not accustomed with pet names, all his life, never has he used a pet name, but, then again, his nephews are just that, nephews, and it wasn't like Claire grew up with them.

"Are you a friend of Santa's? Like a big, really big elf?" the girl asks, nudging to the hat on his head.

"Why, yes, he is," Claire chimes in.

Peter smiles at the girl and then says, "That's right. You tell me what you want for Christmas, and I'll make sure Santa gets the message, okay? Now, what's your name?"

"Sarah. My name's Sarah, really big elf," the girl smiles brightly at him.

"Sarah's a very pretty name. Did you know it meant princess?" Peter asks her, and she shakes her head. "Now tell really big elf what you want for Christmas."

Sarah leans in and whispers in his ear, one hand on the man's shoulder, the other clutching on her teddy bear. It's a simple request, bunched up in a complicated package: "I just want Daddy to come home."

Peter looks at Sarah with a serious expression but Sarah, being a just a kid, smiles at him and then walks to her mother's side.

Peter gets up from his crouching position on the floor, and Sarah's mother says, "I'm sorry we ruined your afternoon."

"No, don't be sorry. Sarah's a very sweet girl," Peter looks down on the six-year-old.

"Do you two have kids? It's just that you're really good with them," Sarah's mother asks.

"No, we're not together, and neither of us have kids," Peter says.

"Oh, I just assumed," the young woman's voice trailed off.

"It's fine. Merry Christmas," Peter smiles at her.

"You, too," the young woman smiles and proceeds to carry her daughter off.

Claire and Peter resume their walking, but it seems Peter's face is permanently in that state: happy and joyful. His lopsided smile is plastered on his expression, and he seems happier.

"She was right, you know. You're going to be a great father," Claire says to him.

"And you're going to be a great mother," he says. "I'm serious. I've always thought of you as the girl who gets the American Dream. White picket fences, kids, the whole soccer mom thing."

"You do know that I'm indestructible, right? That sort of crushes that perspective," Claire says.

"Maybe, maybe not," Peter shrugs. He pauses, not looking at her, stopping his walk, not looking at anything. "Hey, do me favor?"

"Anything," Claire answers.

"If I ever ask you what to name my kid, tell me Sarah, and I'll remember this day," Peter says.

Claire smiles at him, totally envisioning his happy family life with someone other than her, because it's never her, never has, never will be. But she answers nonetheless: "Done."

* * *

Peter Petrelli has truly lost it. He knows he shouldn't feel this, he's just her uncle, her best friend, and he should not be prying into her boyfriend's mind during dinner. He promised her he'd behave, but Peter, being Peter, the man who's secretly in love with his niece, can't help but pick up stray thoughts from Ryan Land's mind.

Peter's hoping to find something to dig him out of the Petrelli mansion, something to make Nathan throw him out of the house, and make Claire cry and Peter and comfort her. Yup, he's truly lost it.

But Ryan is a good boy, athletic, smart, Ivy League bound, nothing wrong with him, unless you count the stares he's been giving Claire during dinner. It's not a two-sided stare, like one of Peter and Claire's gazes with smiley faces and all; it's a sort of predator-like look the teenage boy puts on whenever Claire does something. It sets Peter off like a ticking bomb.

"So, what do you think of Ryan?" Claire asks him in the dining room. It's just them; the others have resorted to the living room to talk more about Ryan.

"He's okay," Peter says truthfully.

"He's okay? That's it? Usually you're up my case about, well, everything," Claire says to him.

"He's a very nice boy, Claire. You should keep dating him, you certainly have my blessing," Peter says.

"Your blessing? Really? All night you've been reading his mind and you seriously have nothing to say?" Claire asks. Peter looks at her with an astonished expression. "Oh come on, Peter. I know you."

"Okay, not really. You don't really have my blessing," Peter stops clearing the plates to look at Claire square in her green eyes. "Have you seen the way he looks at you? It's like he thinks you're bait, Claire. I don't know, it just ticks me off."

"What if I wanna be bait?" Claire says out of nowhere. Oh hell no.

"Like you said, he's a very nice boy, and plus there's the fact I haven't, you know."

"Had sex?" Peter enquires.

"Way to sugarcoat it, Uncle Peter, but yeah," Claire chuckles.

"How well do you know this guy, Claire? I can't let you do this, unless it's someone you really like, someone you really want," Peter grips on her arms. _You, I only want you, _is what goes through Claire's head just at that moment.

"I'm just saying, maybe you could wait a little more. If Ryan's as great as the world makes him out to be, then great. You don't want to regret your first time, Claire," Peter looks at her seriously.

He doesn't want to tell her this, because he doesn't want Claire to go off with picture perfect Ryan; he wants her to go with him, a sketched mess.

"Fine," Claire says.

"Good, now come here," Peter says and pulls her in for an embrace. He kisses the top of her head, because it's the only way he'll be able to kiss her. Not like he wants to, with his lips crushing hers in a desperate attempt to tell her he loves her, in a way he shouldn't. He'll never be able to do that.

"Hey, Claire," Ryan's voice comes out of nowhere. Claire removes herself from her uncle's arms, looking slightly embarrassed. "I think I have to go now."

"I'll walk you out," Claire smiles at him.

The two teenagers walk out the door, and Peter, being the protective uncle-slash-pervert, looks out the window. In the darkness, he can see two bodies melding together in one passionate kiss. Peter feels his stomach churning at the very sight of Claire-_his_ Claire-kissing another boy. He feels defeated. He feels sick to his core. He feels…like he needs a drink.

* * *

Calls at 3 in the morning are never, ever good. That's why when a call comes through; Claire Bennet has been programmed to let it go to voicemail. At least when she wakes up, it won't be 3 in the morning. But this call is different.

But it goes to voicemail nonetheless because she's turning in her sleep. Damn the person who's calling, whoever he or she is. If it's a savior of the world, she'll deal with it in the morning, when there's actually light to see with.

"Hey, Claire!" a garbled voice comes on through the receiver. "It's Peter! Funny story, I'm drunk. I really need you right now." Another voice comes over the line, one that's gruff and unfamiliar.

"Yeah, Claire, right? Your boy's been here all night. Come by as soon as you get this." The guy then proceeds to give her the address of a bar and hangs up.

The universe has just proven Claire's point: calls at 3 am are either unproductive or just plain insane and against the rules of the universe. This, evidently, is the latter. What would posses her uncle, her perfect uncle, who doesn't think of suicide anymore, and doesn't do anything that could've dubbed 'inappropriate', to get drunk?

It doesn't make sense one bit. Claire groans as she gets up and gets dressed. Outside, she hails a cab and gives the Asian-looking guy the address. She breathes heavily in the cab and continues racking her brain for a reason of her uncle's sudden weird behavior.

They pull over, and Claire tells the cab driver to stay until she comes back. She gets inside and instantly calls out Peter's name. No one seems to answer, except for one man at a bar table.

"Claire!" he says. Claire almost has the impulse to gasp. Dark bags have taken residence under his eyes, and his usual clean raven hair is messed up and ruffled from misery.

"How's he been?" Claire asks the bartender.

"Fine. Hung up about some girl, but, other than that, just fine," he says.

Claire wants to ask about this girl, and why he hasn't told her about this girl, because they tell each other everything. But what he says-scratch that, sings-next shuts her up from everything and anything she's wanted to ask or say.

"I love you, you're pree-ty!" Peter belts out the horrendous Barney tune. "It sucks that we're family! With a great big hug and a-" he kisses her on the cheek, "from me to you, won't you say you love me, too?" Okay, this is just demented and crazy.

"Okay, Peter, why don't you tell me why you're drunk? And singing the Barney song with rendered lyrics?" Claire asks, sitting next to him.

Peter leans in closer, so close that Claire's breath gets caught in her throat, and they're sharing the same air, his breath hot on her skin. Tingles go through her body at the intimacy, shivers from all those nights thinking about this, fantasizing about Peter's lips on hers. This is actually happening.

"So I can do this without worrying," he says and kisses her with all he's got.

With all those months, this kiss should be great, it should have sparks and electricity, but it doesn't. No tingle, no burst of energy that should be pulsating between their lips. Claire pulls away to see how Peter's expression is, the aftermath of this kiss, but he doesn't show it. Why? Because large amounts of alcohol has never done Peter Petrelli good, or, for that matter, conscious.

Claire holds him up by the arms, as the sleeping Petrelli places his head on her shoulder. "The guy's a lean, mean incest machine," the bartender chuckles.

"How did you know?" Claire looks at him astounded.

"For a few more shots, guys are willing to loosen up, darling," he smiles. "He talked about you. How wonderful you are. Talked about how fucked up he was for being in love with his niece. I take it that's you?"

Claire nods at him, she wants to respond, but it seems that her words are caught. Peter Petrelli's fucked up, because he's in love with his niece. He knows what it's like, then. All this time, he's been feeling everything she's been.

"He can't be in love with me," Claire looks down at Peter's unconscious form.

"I think it's wrong, and fucked and screwed but the guy seemed really happy when he talked about you. Said you were the only thing keeping him hanging," the bartender says.

They can't be together, because the kiss malfunctioned. No matter what state both of them are in, if he's really in love with her, and she with him, any kiss between them should be perfect. So that means they don't have the chemistry to make this work…right?

* * *

Why does the universe hate him so much? Why do the forces of power do everything in their will to make sure he's screwed every time he turns around? Early morning.

Late enough for it to be an appropriate time for him to wake up and early enough for him to be the only one awake in the Petrelli household. His head feels like it's about to explode any second now. Yesterday seems like a blur of events.

He remembers the bartender, the gruff looking roughneck serving him drinks, and the shots on the table, some finished on his behalf, others waiting to be consumed. He remembered Claire, too, the fuzzy blonde figure striding towards him. But that's all he remembers.

But he does remember a sudden pressure taking place on his lips. Did he-Oh, God-did he _kiss_ her? He did, didn't he? Peter walks down to the living room to plop on the couch, but finds he's wrong, and he's not the only one awake.

Claire's there, channel surfing in her sleeping attire. An attire that's put together with a tank top and short shorts, it's not really helping him with his problem.

Claire spots him, and asks, "You feeling better?"

"Yeah, a lot better. I don't know what I was thinking drinking that much," Peter gives out a fake, pathetic smile.

"Sit down," Claire says. Peter does so, feeling a little awkward and uncomfortable. As soon as he sits, he can hear thoughts. C

laire's thoughts. _Peter, I know,_ she thinks. _I know why you were drinking. Because of me? The guy told me you were in love me, by hearing you out. God, Peter… _She knew.

"That kiss was a mistake," Claire says out of nowhere.

"I know it was," Peter says, not looking at her.

"I was stupid for thinking I was in love with you. I'm just a kid, I didn't know any better. I didn't feel anything. You're supposed to feel something, right?" Claire rambles. He's not so sure if she's talking to him anymore.

Claire faces him, cross-legged, and takes his hands in hers. "Peter, I need you to kiss me again," she says.

"What?!" Peter asks, astonished, shocked, and appalled, whatever other words that he can find in the dictionary in his head.

"Once and for all, I need to know how I feel. If you kiss me again and nothing happens, then fine. I just need to know. This is the only way I can," Claire says. "_Please_."

Peter reluctantly nods at her request. It's true anyhow. It's not just for her; it's for him, too. This way, he can stop his dreams, because, it won't ever work out. He can stop being this.

Peter leans in closer, and Claire does, too. They're inches from each other, so close until the point of no return. They have to do it. Then it happens. She kisses him, he kisses her, whoever. It doesn't matter.

What matters is that he's wrong. This can work, because he feels it. Peter feels everything. The spark, the burst of heat, the chain reaction for all the sins he's about to commit. Claire feels it, too. Her hands ruffle themselves in his hair, and she's desperately kissing him with all her life.

Peter deepens the kiss, until both of them fall on the couch, and Peter's arms are pinned over her head, continuing their maneuver. He pulls away, not out of second thoughts, just to see what he's done.

Claire's hair is surrounding her like a halo; she's smiling up to him. This is what he wants. Claire is what he wants. To hell with their blood relations, to hell with everything. All that matters is now, just she and him. Peter dips down to whisper in her ear: "I love you, Claire Bennet."

* * *

He loves her; he truly, utterly, loves her. It's just Peter and Claire in the house; the others have left for one of Nathan's congressional shindigs. Peter fibs and says he's got work, and Claire lies and says that she has a ton of homework to do.

But both of them aren't doing what they're supposed to be doing. They're just together, kissing every two seconds, being in love. They deserve this day. Just the two of them, forgetting anything and everything that was keeping them apart before this. He loves her, she loves him, with all of their hearts belonging to each other, they deserve this day. To forget they're blood relatives, to forget they're super-powered heroes, to forget about their big age difference, they need this day.

"I love you," Claire utters in between kisses.

"I'll never get bored of that," Peter chuckles as he sucks on her neck and she moans in pleasure.

"I want forever to be like this," Claire says.

"Same here," Peter stops kissing for a while to stroke her hair, to love her like she deserves to be loved.

"I wanna do it," Claire says out of the blue.

"What?" Peter asks subtly.

"I wanna do it. Make love, to you," Claire says, slightly embarrassed.

"Claire, are you sure?" Peter asked her with a concerned look. "We don't need to…"

"I want to. I want it to be you. Always you," Claire fingers his face, and everything inside of him explodes. "Okay?"

"Okay," Peter nods, and picks her up and walks her to his room.

As soon as the door's closed and locked, Claire starts kissing him with frenzy, desperation, everything. Peter goes lower to kiss her neck and trail butterfly kisses on the sensitive skin, and she shivers under his touch.

Peter pulls Claire's shirt over her head, and Claire begins to unbutton his shirt. For a virgin, Claire's pretty confident. She's not fidgety, she's ready; she's perfect. And his to take and make his own.

When both of them are completely in the nude, it's only then that Claire shows her fear. Peter towers over her, arms on either side of her, with a loving expression on his face.

"Don't be scared, Claire," Peter kisses her forehead. "I'm going to take care of you. It's going to be okay."

He's not just saying it for her first time experience, it's in general. They love each other, and it's going to be okay. As long as his heart beats, she'll be okay. They'll both be okay.

* * *

Angela Petrelli has lied before; it would be a fib if she said she hadn't. But the biggest skeleton in her dust-covered closet was the parentage of her youngest son. She promised her friend to keep a secret, and here they were, 26 years later, people involved still oblivious to what she's been hiding.

Her fingers itch for the phone in Peter's room. She has second thoughts about it, seeing the two shrouded bodies in Peter's bed, but she kept a promise. And she'll forever keep that promise. Her fingers latch on the receiver.

She dials slowly, careful not to wake the sleeping couple, and speaks into the phone, "Haitian, it seems we have a little problem."

* * *

"Peter Petrelli?" she asks him. Peter nods his head, and somewhat sees the resemblance between this stranger and Claire. The little figures he's sure he's just dreaming about, because he's been dreaming about Claire too much. The young woman smiles at him, and says, "Hi, my name's Hannah. I think we need to talk."

* * *

A/N: Less proud about this chapter but at least I wrote it!! Next up: Hannah and Evan

-Aly


	5. Sweet Hevan

**A/N: Hannah and Evan, as I promised... **

**Enjoy!

* * *

**

**Snapshots**

**Part Indecisive: Hannah and Evan**

Mia Suresh ponders. The woman in her late twenties is waiting for her husband to come home with their adopted daughter, the human GPS system. The speedster can't fathom just how well she's got it, married life, children; it's the picture perfect dream.

Except, of course, for the going of her best friend, and, for four years, her only family. Evan Kinney was a great loss, especially to her. No one could've understood what Evan meant to her, no one, perhaps, Hannah Petrelli. But she was gone, with him, and the only one living to tell the tale of Evan.

Sometimes when she looks at the infant Hannah, she has to wonder if she'll ever remember Evan, since; it was her past life, anyhow. And realize what a catch he was, and how much he truly loved her beyond anyone he cared for before. She was the only thing in his life that meant a damn to him. So God put it in his hands to put them together, in death.

* * *

It's love/hate at first sight. Is that even possible? Hannah thinks. If the world hasn't heard about it before this day, then it better be in books. There's something that attracts Hannah to Evan, perhaps it's his strength, his charisma, his good looks, and the fact that he would become a great mentor, one of the saviors of the world.

But there's also something that sets her off, and is a growing urge to run to the hills. That, unmistakably, she can blame on his arrogance and his bad timing for sarcastic remarks. While Peter's in the kitchen, and Mia's God knows where, the remaining three-Claire, Hannah, Evan-go to the living room for resort.

"So…" Evan drones as he crashes on the couch. "What can you do?"

"I have biological weaponry," Hannah says merely.

"And I, unfortunately, have a brain that has no idea what that is," Evan says in response. Hannah almost has to bite back the urge to roll her eyes.

"I can make any part of my body a weapon. I can turn my fingers into missiles, my whole hand into a gun, et cetera," Hannah says instead.

"Like Transformers?" Evan asks. Hannah puts on the first real smile on her face, leading her to believe maybe Evan isn't that bad after all.

* * *

"Tell me something interesting," Evan says, the afternoon after his arrival.

It's been a few hours since Claire told Hannah that Peter slept with Mia, the speedster vigilante, and Hannah's just trying to be cool about everything, but Evan won't let her. He's just getting more and more attached to her, like a random insect she can't just flick off. But she deals with it, mostly because if there is no Evan, the world would probably lose a savior. And what she has seen of the world, they're going to need it, so she answers him.

"I'm nothing interesting," Hannah shrugged and flipped the channel onto a random cooking show. She doesn't care, not at the least, but she needs something to distract her.

"You're a daughter from the future, I'm sure that counts for interesting," Evan says to her.

"I'm a mundane daughter from the future," Hannah says absent-mindedly. But she sighs, because Evan's going to be sticking around, and it's better if she's on good terms with him, as much as he'll grow up into an ass, and he already is.

"What about you?" she ends up asking him.

"Same old sob story for me. Parents died by the time I was nine, went into the system, and became the kid everyone loved to hate. I wasn't even close to adoption," Evan answers. "How'd you get out, then?" Hannah asks.

"How do you think?" Evan looks at her. True, this is Evan Kinney they're talking about. "I always hated it there. As soon as I was old enough, I just packed up and left. They had no objections whatsoever. They were just glad I was going."

"Then you met Mia," Hannah crosses her legs on the couch, both hands on either side of her as she listens to Evan.

"Then I met Mia," Evan nods. "It was an unexpected detour, truth be told, but I think it was worth it."

"What was?" Hannah asks.

"The whole enchilada, being the guy in black saving people from bank robberies and firing out whenever it was necessary to save everyone," Evan says, opening up a new bag of chips to eat.

"I'm surprised the police never caught up," Hannah remarks.

"How could they? We were the good guys, saving people they couldn't, and they had no reason to press charges or have us spend the night in jail. Granted, if we did spend the night in jail, we'd get out in 5 seconds flat. But we shoulda gotten badges or something, something with the words honor on like shiny plaques to wear over our heads or hang around our necks. Be like undercover cops and they'd pay us more than they pay themselves," Evan says.

"Question," Hannah holds up a finger. "How fast do you actually talk?"

Evan chuckles and almost snorts on his chip and answers her with, "I never calculated. Roughly, the Gilmore speed. Those girls can talk really fast."

Hannah remembers the show through reruns and such, otherwise she wouldn't have known and just shrugged her shoulders, and, yes, given, those girls did talk fast.

"Want one?" Evan holds out the bag of chips in front of her face.

Hannah shrugs and takes a handful and put them on her lap. She has never really been the girl who had a lot of junk food, mostly because she's never had time to lay back and have junk food. The only food she's had are her mother's home cooked meals, that might sound embarrassing to a teen in this day and age but who the hell cared about that in the dark future she lived in?

Hannah Petrelli is a sloppy eater, that's a known fact that God made sure everyone saw. It doesn't run in the family, her parents were organized and neat and so were her grandparents, for all she knows, she's the only one in the family who'll always have food stains around the rim of her mouth. Hannah looks up, and, sure enough, Evan's there with a smile on his face.

"What?" Hannah asks, half-angry, half-embarrassed.

"Nothing," Evan shrugs, smiling. "I just like a girl who's just as sloppy as I am."

"Oh yeah?" Hannah asks, teasing, her hand turning into a boulder, sharp on the edges as a joke.

"Now, ma'am, put down your boulder," Evan laughs and holds up his hands as a form of surrender. Hannah laughs with him and her hand's back to normal.

"That's amazing," Evan says. "How do you do that?"

"I've done it all my life, it's just a trait now," Hannah says, waving it away.

"I'm in awe of it," Evan puts his hand on his chest, shaking his head and smiling.

"You're not too bad yourself, Kinney," she says.

"Pish posh," Evan says. Before she knows it, he's standing up, hands held out for her to take. "Come on," he says with the biggest grin on his face. "I'll show you a few tricks."

* * *

Her face is still red. She puts her hand to cover the bruise that's going to be there in the morning, after a restless sleep she's planning to have. She pushes past everyone, Mia, Evan, even Claire.

She can't look at anyone, like it's grimace that's stuck on her face, like duct tape she can't peel off without pain. Hannah's just underwent familial violence, but, she knows, deep within her, inside the layers of core, he's good and he didn't mean for it to happen. He was just under stress, and he'll be better soon. He'll get better. They'll get better together.

It sounds like a naïve thought, and God knows that Hannah Sarah Petrelli hasn't really been naïve or too trusting ever since her father died. She can feel her eyes burn with tears. No, don't cry.

"Hannie, you okay?" Evan asks her, but she pushes past him, nudges him with her shoulder. "Hey, wait up!"

"What?" Hannah asks angrily.

"I'm asking if you're okay," Evan looks at her.

"Well, I'm fine, thanks for caring," she says sarcastically.

"Fine, you don't wanna talk about it, fine! I'd better just shut you up and drive you to the middle of nowhere!" Evan says angrily.

"God, are you ever serious?" Hannah throws up her hands at him.

"Of course I am," he merely says, shrugging his shoulders like a little kid.

"Doesn't seem like it," Hannah tells him.

Man, what she would give to be a bitch and slap his face without feeling the least guilt. What she would've done to him if she actually was a bitch. Hannah begins to run from him again, her palm still covering the side of her face, her eyes beginning to burn from every anxiety, every pain she's feeling, everybody she's shoved away and everybody that's shoved her away, too.

"Hey!" Evan calls her back, but she doesn't look back, she keeps walking though she hasn't the slightest idea where to go from there.

She doesn't know how to even walk without seeming drunk, but she still walks from Evan. He stands in front of her, disabling her from walking away like she wants to.

"I am serious about some stuff, okay? I don't make jokes all the time," Evan says to her. "For one thing, I'm serious about helping your parents, saving the world. And, Hannie, if you can believe me, I'm serious about you. I find myself caring about you more than anyone."

She looks up to him, doesn't say a word, but it's better this way, because she's not screaming, she's not walking away from him, she's just there. And that should matter. "Now, come on, let's go home," Evan says, seemingly enveloping the girl in his arms. Hannah finally lets her hand down from her face, it doesn't mean she's fine, it just means she's better.

* * *

"Are you nervous?" Evan asks her hours later. In fact, they're already in 'Crapville' and neither of them can sleep, it's probably just anxiety, that they either die or live. Hannah's in the lobby, no one's around, everyone's already bid their goodbyes and they're already sleeping. That's basically a blessing in her book.

"Do I seem calm?" Hannah looks up at him, asking.

"No, you look like you're scared shitless," Evan chuckles, sitting next to her on the couch with a wooden base.

"That's the right description," Hannah says, putting her face in her hands. "I don't know how they can sleep."

Evan shrugs at her, and leans into the couch, his hands on his stomach and looks up to the ceiling, breathing deeply. The lobby had a hole through the ceiling, a perfect square she hasn't figured out was intentional or someone blew up a square-shaped bomb on the roof. But she appreciates it now, because she can see a cluster of stars through the peephole.

She leans back, her elbow nudging Evan in the process, and looks at the night. It's been a while since she's done anything like this, just forget about their worries and look at someone beautiful for once. But Hannah can see that this isn't Evan's first time, he knows what it's like to be free, at least for the first half of his life.

"I'm not worried about my powers malfunctioning, because I know they're intact," she says out of the blue.

"How very modest of you," Evan chuckles, and so does she.

"Don't you wanna know why?" she asks him.

"Sure. Why?" Evan shifts his head so he can look at her, but she's not staring back.

"You were my mentor," Hannah says in a matter-of-factly way.

"I thought Peter was," Evan points out.

"Are you kidding? My father died before he got to do anything, before he got to teach me anything about the world, I hadn't even manifested my powers by the time he died," Hannah explains.

"So you had me," Evan looks back to the night.

"I had you," she nods. "You told me to be a fighter, to be in a war and still come out human. You made me read the Art of War when I was 10 when I didn't understand one bit of it, and every year until I finally locked it in. You did everything my father couldn't, in your own way."

Hannah paused for a while, thinking about it, remembering flashes of training drills, whining and complaining to him until her muscles were sore from the punches and kicks and pummels. She'd come home whining like a baby, and her mother would nurse her like a kid, and Michael would brag it to her face that he lasted it. She'd get in a bad mood at Evan the next day until he finally showed her that it was going to be all worth it, and it was. It was worth it.

"You trained me, guided me, and, even though you didn't show it, you cared about me. You made everything look so easy. You'd come home from a fight, bruises and burns on your skin but you still managed to smile. You were happy enough to be alive," Hannah continues. "You were an ass, but the thing was, you were a noble ass which made me look up to you even more. Because you were mean and pushy and controlling but you still managed to be the hero."

"It seems like you had a little crush on the future me," Evan nudges her.

"What? No, of course not. Our relationship was completely professional," Hannah shrugs.

"Okay, then," Evan looks back at the sky. She conceals the fact that she did have a crush on him, and there's a possibility she still does.

* * *

Lights are flickering, he can hear people scattering from the scene, dead corpses on the floor, but he doesn't look back. He has orders, and that one is to keep the young woman he's carrying safe. He pushes past every obstacle the world can throw at him until he gets to one of the cells, and he manages to hold up Hannah in one hand, keeping her up until her head is on his shoulders.

Evan puts his hand on the glass paned window and forces all his energy into heating the glass up, then a blue blasts comes pummeling out of his hand and it ends up on the concrete wall of the other side. Evan picks Hannah up again, and goes into the cell, steadily holding her up with the rest of his energy because he can't let her down.

If she dies, it'll be his fault, because he wasn't strong enough to defend the both of them. Her skin has bruises on them, slight burns that decorate her face, but, other than that, she's as beautiful as ever. Behind the cell, there's a hallway, light on one end, the other's a dead end. Evan breathes heavily and fast, like he's running out of breath, out of strength to keep both of them safe and alive.

He tries to run to the other side, where it looks safer than the dead end and going back to war central. But he can't. He stops halfway, putting Hannah down on the floor, and he leans against the wall. His insides are burning up from anxiety, from concern for Hannah and worry for his own life. If he wants to live, he'll have to walk. But he feels like dying, feels like it's not worth it, it doesn't matter anymore.

_But Hannah_, his conscience mutters. He crouches down to her, and sees that this is the only time she's at peace with the world, when she doesn't know what's going on out there. There's even a curve of a smile playing on her lips, a ghost of her past, the life she's never going to lead, full of happiness and everything too hard to handle is pushed past. But that's not going to happen, because Peter died.

Her father died, and her parents aren't going to get together anytime soon. She's just a reminder of something that was never meant to be. She at least gets to live now. She at least gets to know how it turns out, and he's going to give it to her. So with everything he can muster, he picks her up, her head lolling to the side, nuzzling his chest in the process.

"I didn't lie to him, Hannie," Evan says with pain etched in his voice. "I am going to take care of you."

So he runs to the light. It's so close now, so close. But he feels a burn at the back of his body. It isn't his natural being; it's someone firing a taser at him. He falls down to the floor, wrought by the new pain and the leftovers. He passes out, with Hannah still in his arms.

* * *

After they're all cleaned up, they sit on the couch. There's this awkward space between them, figuratively and literally. It's like they're too scared to touch because everything's been so shaky and scary and fragile, they fear the very delicacy they've been handed will break.

Hannah looks at him awkwardly, and asks, "Why aren't you saying anything? You always have something to say."

"I don't know," Evan looks at her. "I don't know if I wanted to do that, if it was just the heat of the moment, or if I really meant it." Ouch, Hannah thinks.

"So you regret it?" she asks.

Evan looks at her, tender and gentle, a gaze she's never seen him wear. He takes his hands and wraps them around her, shifting his weight to the side. "No, never," he tells her in a gentle whisper. "I should know what to do right now, but I don't. I don't know what to do."

"I do," Hannah says to him and she leans into him, kicking off her shoes and her back is now to his front. Evan tries to make them comfortable, by moving slightly, but Hannah says, "No, don't move, just stay there."

She looks back and sees him smiling. "I'm not really good at this cuddling thing," Evan says apologetically. "You're doing fine. I feel good," Hannah says, her head on his chest. "I feel safe."

"That's good," Evan chuckles. "Just hold me," she says. And he does.

He wraps her in his arms, and, unexpectedly, he starts stroking her hair in a sign of adoration. She stops him, and takes the hand in hers, so they're holding hands. He kisses her hair. She looks up and there's a moment. She can't describe it, it's just this one moment where everything's so nice and peaceful, where the world is actually listening to their pleas. Where time stops and it's just them. It sounds unbelievably corny and overused but she can't help how she feels.

* * *

Evan closes the door in front of them, and looks back at his girlfriend. "Your parents seem happy," he notes.

"They do, don't they?" Hannah smiles, crossing her arms and crashing on the couch simultaneously.

"And we seem happy, don't we?" Evan pockets his hands, shrugging.

"No, we don't seem happy," Hannah says. "We _are_."

She gets up from the couch and puts his chin in her hand and gives him a kiss. He responds as an impulse, he can't say no to Hannie, but just before it gets deeper and more of what he wants, she pulls away. Right, it's not time for that. Not yet. Soon, but not now.

"Come on, let's watch a movie or something. Get away from troubles and focus on fictional ones," Hannah says, sitting on the couch again, her legs on the table in front of her, and Evan sits next to her, his arm around her as she begins to flip on some channels.

She settles on one, about some blonde teenager, but he doesn't mind, it's their time and Evan doesn't really concentrate on anything but her. Hannah leans into him a little bit more, comfortable and safe in his arms, but her hand begins to travel some place else. It was around his waist before but now they've switched roads and it's trailing up his thigh.

She doesn't look like she's doing anything out of the ordinary; in fact, she looks engrossed in the show. So engrossed it makes him suspicious. Her hand is hiking up now, and he trembles under her touch. Evan doesn't want to make a sound because it might ruin the moment but once her hand covers there, he can't help but make a little sound.

She plays with him a little, teases him until he's breathing heavily. When she pulls away, he whimpers out of desperation. Oh fuck, she's driving him crazy. Hannah unexpectedly switches off the TV and basically attacks him with her lips, her fingers, everything.

Her kisses are wrought with frenzy, desire, passion, her hands are taking control over her body and he can't help but moan when she pushes every button of his. He's out of control, but, damn, it feels good.

"You," kiss, "upstairs," kiss, "now."

"Yes, ma'am," Evan smiles at her, and both of them walk upstairs, clumsily walking up the stairs, keeping their lips still attached. It would've been comical if it wasn't so hot. She pulls his t-shirt off when they reach the door and Hannah just, glorified, slams him against the door for being so slow and clumsy and just as inexperienced as she is.

She wants more, needs more. She wants him. Right fucking now. He fumbles at the doorknob and manages to open the door. Hannah keeps her hands on him as she kicks off her shoes. She feels almost guilty for this. She knows this is the first time for both of them, and they're in such a hurry to feel something. They should slow down. So she suggests it.

"Wait," Hannah breathes into the nape of his neck. "Slow down. I want to remember this. I want to remember you."

Evan pulls back, and takes her face in his hands, and says, "Okay. I'll slow down."

Reassuringly, he pulls at her shirt but she takes it off herself. He kisses her from top to bottom, leaving torturous kisses, trailing her up and down until she's shivering and practically begging. "Evan Kinney!" she says out of distress. "I didn't mean that slow!"

Evan laughs and says, "You are _so_ going to be the death of me."

* * *

Her father isn't all brilliant, this is one of those times. He's sending them home, while the men stay and fight. And she thought they didn't live in sexist times anymore. Hannah's going to be leaving her boyfriend, and that just doesn't seem fair. She's just as strong as he is. Evan embraces her.

For some reason, she still keeps the humor in the situation as she whispers into his ear, "Kick them in the balls, it always works." Evan laughs on the other side of her.

"Be safe," Hannah says, kissing him square on the mouth.

"If you're waiting for me, always," Evan says, responding to her kiss.

They go up to elevator, and her mother's basically thrashing out of distress. Mia's calming her down, something Hannah can't do at the moment because she's just as nervous as her mother is, just quietly. She crosses her arms and leans against the elevator. The hard metal is hurting her, but it's nothing compared to the fearful thought that Evan might not come home in one piece.

Before she knows it, they're back in the comfortable confines of the Petrelli Mansion. Neither woman can talk, they're all wrapped inside this little fearful cocoon, scared if anyone's going to make it back. Her insides are clenching, her heart is pounding inside of her, so hard that she's afraid that it's about to burst out of her before she even knows anything.

It seems like days, Hannah just sitting there, her eyes glassy with no expression, her frame still and steady, not willing to take anything anyone's going to give her. A hug, some reassurance, she doesn't want it.

The door opens, and, surely enough, there he is. He drops everything and anything and comes running towards her. Evan covers her with loving kisses and displays of affections. He's kissing her so hard that she can't catch her breath. "Being away from you is hell," Hannah says between kisses.

"Good, because I'm never leaving you again," Evan picks her up from the floor and twirls her.

She giggles from it, because Evan's never this romantic, but she guesses it's the being apart thing that makes him snap. Later, after the news, Hannah sits down on the couch, unwilling to believe it's actually happening. Everything, genocide, above everything she's already got.

"God, this is insane," she mutters under her breath. "Genocide? After all of this and Natasha chooses genocide?" Evan rubs her arm in a comforting gesture but it's not really helping with it.

"You know what? You're the only one keeping me sane right now, even my parents are driving me a little crazy," Hannah says, looking up to him.

"Really? 'Cause you're driving me crazy," Evan smiles.

"In a good way?" Hannah asks.

Evan kisses her and answers, "In an awesome way."

* * *

"Wow," is all he can say. Hannah's wearing a dress, a curve-hugging form of clothing that's driving Evan crazy.

"Okay?" Hannah asks, twirling around.

"More than okay," Evan breathes. "I mean, I know what's underneath all of that but wow."

"When will be the day where you stop pointing out we had sex?" Hannah smiles.

"When you suddenly get really, really bad at it," Evan pulls her into his arms. "Which I think will be a long time coming." Hannah laughs in his arms.

Evan kisses her, not on the mouth like he usually does, but on her bare neck. Oh God, he knows what does to her… "We can't do this now," Hannah protests.

"No one will know," Evan says, distracting her with trails of kisses.

"Not now," she whimpers.

"Hannah, just shut up, will you?" Evan pulls away from her.

"Fine," she gives up because his touch is too sensational to pull away from. She's losing herself, she wants to look at the watch, because she should be ready now, not having foreplay with her boyfriend in her new dress.

"I need to hurry, Ev," Hannah points out.

"Hasty, are we?" Evan nips on her shoulder.

"What? And you've never thought about having a quickie?" Hannah laughs.

"My girlfriend's a kinky one," Evan laughs.

"Come on, Evan! I need you but I also need to hurry!" Hannah snaps.

"Okay, okay," Evan says, hiking up her dress. "You want this, right?"

"No," Hannah shakes her head. "I need this."

* * *

Dinner is weird. There's no other way to put it. Dinner is absolutely, inexplicably, weird. So Hannah steals a moment to 'go to the ladies' room'. Yes, she does go to the bathroom, but she doesn't do anything that's supposed to be done in the bathroom. She calls Evan instead.

"How's it going?" he asks.

Hannah leans against the counter and answers, "No idea. I mean, I love them both to death, but it's like we're more friends than family."

"Do you want me to do the whole knight in shining armor thing?" Evan asks.

"Nah, it's fine," Hannah gives a little laugh. "If I don't do this now, we'll never know what being a family's all about."

"You're always going to be family, no matter what," Evan reassures her. Hannah fingers her hair, it's a habit she does when she's nervous. "I should get going. I just needed some reassurance," she says into the phone.

"Wait, uh, I need to tell you something. It's probably not the right way, or right place but I think it's the right time. I love you, Hannah," Evan breathes. Hannah's heart just about stops right then. She stays silent for a long time, which sort of gives out a different message.

"Hannie?" Evan says. "It's ok if-"

"No, I do," Hannah says. "I love you, too."

"Good, now get this whole thing over with. The faster you do that, the faster you can get home and I can kiss the living daylights outta you," Evan says. Hannah smiles and responds, "Can't wait."

* * *

The night is dark, the dawn is coming, but, for now, they're engulfed in the unknown presence of themselves. They're alone, so close, so silent in the dark, they're breathing heavily from the afterglow of love-making. Both are embraced in each other's arms, cuddling, holding on to each other so that neither are lost.

Evan doesn't know that Hannah's silent because she's thinking. She's pondering her mind for a solution to her problem. But her very silence is what makes him ask, "What's wrong?"

"I don't know where I belong," Hannah says straight out, without even a second of thought.

"What do you mean?" Evan asks, stroking her hair gently.

"I came from one future, and that future probably doesn't exist anymore. I could stay in this, but anything that happens here could effect who I am," Hannah breathes on his chest. "I might as well be dead."

"Don't say that," Evan says, a little bit of anger showing.

"Why not?" Hannah asks.

"Because I love you," Evan merely answers. "You are everything to me. Wherever you go, I'll go, too. But don't go where I can't follow."

"You can't be with me forever," Hannah pulls away from him.

"That's my choice," Evan says. "And I want to. We can cross alternate dimensions, whatever we need to do to make you be home. I am going to be right there with you."

"If you're doing that for me, then I'm going to do the same for you," Hannah kisses him gently.

"Then it's a promise," Evan says softly, breathing against her hair.

"A promise," Hannah repeats under her breath.

Evan is going to follow her, the young man she loves , is willing to let everything down, for her. He's going to follow her. As she goes back to sleep, she wonders if that promise stretches to death. For her, it does.

* * *

Hannah's two now, she's a good girl, she's cute and every parent would be proud to have a girl like her. Claire's showing her all the pictures of the past. Peter, Evan, everyone that died. She's in her mother's arms as the teenage mother shows her daughter one last picture.

"And this, this is Evan," Claire says.

"Evan…" Hannah drones the name on her tongue.

"Mommy, Evan's pretty," she laughs.

"Yes, he is. He's very pretty. He loved you very much, Hannie," Claire says.

"Really?" Hannah asks. Claire nods. "I love you, too, Evan!" Hannah blows a kiss to the picture. Claire's heart breaks just then. _She has no idea..._

* * *

**Review!**

**-Aly**


	6. Letters to a Dead Man

A/N: I know, the original idea was Hannah/Michael and I have no idea where this came from. Hopefully you'll enjoy in nonetheless. It's about how much Peter meant to Claire, Sylar and a special someone.

I think I did a pretty good job. It's a little shorter than the others but I was low on fuel. I am especially proud of the Sylar letters, hopefully you think it's nice, too. I tried not to make him OOC.

Enjoy!

* * *

Snapshots

Part Life: Dear Peter

Dear Peter,

This was all Sylar's idea. Okay, fine, it was the shrink's idea, but Sylar was the one who suggested having a shrink in the first place so let's just blame it all on your ingenious brother, shall we?

I'm nineteen now, I just celebrated my birthday a few weeks ago, and the kids are about three months old now. Sylar's finally left me alone and got a job as a librarian, it doesn't pay much but it doesn't matter anyway, we always get bi-monthly installments from Nathan. He feels guilty for some reason; he wants to be part of the kids' lives, just like he wasn't part of mine.

So everything's fine, it's steady and more normal that I would've wanted, but it's for the kids, and they're doing just fine. Just a few months on this planet and they're already best friends, our kids. We've opted to nickname Hannah 'Hannie', in memoriam for Evan, the man who called her that and instantly ticked her off whenever she hears it.

So we've decided to instill it when she's still young, and she actually responds when we call her that, she actually smiles. Michael's a different story; he doesn't like nicknames, he will only respond to Michael, not Mike, or Mikey or any other variation of his name, just Michael. It sort of gets annoying, because sometimes I'm tired and I don't have time to roll another extra syllable on my tongue, but that's just him.

And me, well, I'm still adjusting to the whole teen mother thing, but, good news is that I'm not alone. Sylar's there for me, day and night, every day, every night, and I'm grateful because he's the closest thing I have to you. You're a lot alike, because under that gruff exterior, Sylar's just you, empathic, loving, willing to kill for the people he cares about, and he cares about the truth.

He never knew you, but he loves you a lot. Sometimes he's so naïve, but that's him. He misses a lot of things, he misses you, he misses being Gabriel Gray, he misses Daphne, he misses everything that made him good. He doesn't always make the right decisions, but he'll be fine. Everyone's okay, if that's what you're asking. Just missing you, that's all.

Love,

Claire

* * *

Dear Peter,

This was Claire's idea; she says it actually works, telling a dead man your secrets, your life. She said that she felt calm after writing to you, even though it's not you, it's just a piece of paper and a pen in her hands, but I guess after everything's that's happened to us, I still have an inch of my old skeptic self.

What exactly is there to tell you, brother? For one thing, I have the one thing I've wanted, somewhere to belong, right here, in this apartment, where boxes of your stuff are still tucked away and pushed to a file 'to hard to handle' and I have Claire waiting for me, the woman who was supposed to be my sister-in-law, but instead, she's basically my ward, I'm her guardian.

I have hard trouble imagining her with anyone other than you, I have seen pictures of you and her, how each smile speaks of secrets and adoration, I have heard of your great love, those small things you do for her that mean the world. I don't have anyone to sweep off the floor and carry in my arms like you do. You might say I'm envious, because, as much as I fill my days with cute garbles from infants and rows and rows of dusty books, my life is empty.

There's a schedule in front of me, my life cursed by routine ever since we got the twins, and I've gotten so used to it that I barely even take a second to feel remorse or anything else, for that matter. I'm not sorry; it's just that I have ended up the exact same place I wanted to avoid being in, a man being obsolete to the world, insignificant.

People won't look at me twice when I walk down the streets, with books in my arms, or the kids on my waist begging for some sort of sugary confection. I have become exactly what I avoided to be, why I started hunting for abilities, so that they would look at me, and I wouldn't be obsolete, I wouldn't be insignificant.

But somehow I pride myself that I am still good, but, don't get me wrong, there are still times I want to get a peek at Mohinder's list of metahumans and pick one off in the dark of night. But then I remember that I've been doing so well with my life, and I stop all this nonsense because I have worked too hard, I have sacrificed too much and it's not like I have anywhere else to go.

I have begged on my knees in the nearby church the night you died, asking for redemption, it feels selfish to throw it all away now. That night was grim, Peter, everyone kept crying, everyone kept begging to the Holy Lord that this wasn't true, but it was, it is. Going to the church was one of my stolen moments, where I went into the world, as a new man, leaving Claire alone in her bed, sleeping and dreaming about you.

It was the first time I breathed the air I felt right breathing in, when I did feel like a belonged amongst these people, a feeling I would regret later on, but, then, it seemed perfect, an amazement in my mind. It felt right for me to be pocketing my hands, thanking the beginning of my life, and mourning the end of yours.

As brothers, I think we will never be on the same page, it was those two years in infancy when we were ever granted that wish, and then we went our separate ways. I grew up insignificant; you grew up with dozens of people caring, wondering what the little child of the Petrellis would do. But you shocked them all by becoming a nurse, a beloved caretaker, not, instead, following the yellow brick road of politics, law and defense, like the men in your family have done before you. You decided your own path, and I admire you for that.

Me, I grew into the world the Grays created for me, delving deeper into this universe I wanted deeply to escape, though I didn't know then. I was content, not exceptionally happy, just happy sitting behind the corner with watches and my own exceptional Sylar watch. I bet you didn't know I named myself after a watch, did you?

It was inevitable our paths would cross, it was, as you would put it, destiny. God never put connections to waste. I regret how this turned out, how I'm here, hiding behind the bookshelves of a New York library, pouring my all into this letter you will never read, and you're there, up in the heavens, looking down on this very scene.

I love you, Peter, as I always have, and as I always will, even though all I have are memories and regrets and feelings I will never throw away. I will never stop loving you, calling you my brother, visiting your grave, being proud to have some of your essence in mine.

Love Always,

Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray

* * *

Dear Peter,

Sylar suggested some house cleaning so I scoured the house for tidbits we could give to charity or at least give our friends who need some useless shit we currently have. Then I stumble across this box, and I feel bad for forgetting about this box. This box used to mean everything to us.

It's labeled 'Peter' and in it is everything and anything of you that is too private to show the world. Old family photos, letters, everything you could possibly imagine. We started to fill it up the week you died, and it wasn't just us, it was everyone. Nathan, Niki, Molly, Hiro, everyone you could possibly think of that meant anything to you.

Each of them had something special of you and they were willing to shove it into this box for us to remember afterwards. Me and Sylar put each of our letters into this, and, once again, I feel sorry for forgetting this, maybe it's because we have enough of memories of you around the house already displayed and we thought of you when we slept that we didn't need this extra junk. But we did, just imagine the feeling I got when I opened it.

You meant everything to us, Peter. This box truly proved it. I gave Sylar a scare when he saw me on the floor of our bedroom, gasping for air and crying while I leafed through everything you left behind. He didn't say anything; he just put his arms around me and looked through the stuff with me.

There's this crumpled up piece of paper you shared with Molly, apparently you two invented your own sign language, signs of distress and worry whenever you needed them. There's a mix CD you made with Micah, we played it while we continued looking through the box, it sounds surprisingly you and very fitting to the situation.

There are dozens of pictures with Nathan, and a childhood stuffed animal you apparently christened Mayday, and I hope you don't mind, but it now belongs to Michael, with a few little adjustments. There are letters to Niki and DL, chronicling your life in New York City and both of them replying back to you about their lives in Las Vegas.

With Hiro, there are pictures, just the two of you, I don't know when you took these, but then again, both of you are time-travelers. In one of them, you two are fighting with lightsabers with your sign at the back of the picture: Beware, Luke Skywalker…

By the time we scrape off everything in that box, both of us are silently crying. Both of us are living in the aftermath you've left behind. We keep this box once again, easy enough for us to dig up again, and hard enough so that the kids will find a great treasure their father left behind.

Yesterday, Sylar came home with a guilty look on his face, and said that he's been keeping something from me. He didn't say anything for a while, just got out his knapsack and threw the contents on the coffee table in front of the TV. He explained they're childhood tapes of Peter's childhood, his childhood.

Sylar said he's been calling people and asking about the house Linderman used to live in. as if by fate, the same house you two lived in almost 28 years ago has been abandoned like a ghost house. He said this is all they have in that house, memories of the children they gave away, pictures, videos, everything imaginable. Then he just left.

So I watch the tapes, one by one. The first one started with a blank screen, black and empty then I could hear a little boy's squeal: "Look, Mommy, look at my castle!"

The camera twirled and I could see a beautiful spring day and a front yard of a house that was now abandoned and stirring up local myths. The camera zoomed on the boy, and I could instantly recognize those brown eyes. It was you. That boy, so proud of his castle, was you, little Peter Linderman in front of his house and talking to his mother who wasn't a murderous bitch yet.

It seemed so perfect. The camera swirled to see the castle, colorful bricks and all and a little boy still constructing with an intent look on his face. That was Sylar. "

Nu-uh, it's our castle, I helped, too!" he cried out to his brother.

The older of the twins then proceeded to hit his little brother on the head and Peter, you, cried from the miniscule pain.

"Gabriel, say sorry to your brother," Natasha said from behind the camera. Little Gabriel did so, and said sorry to his brother.

"It's 'k, Gabe," you said, and you hugged Sylar until both of you fall to the floor, laughing with glee. "Love you, Gabe!"

"Love you, too, Peter!" Sylar responded.

Then the screen went pitch black. I didn't realize I started crying. It was too much to handle, to see you, the man I loved, and Sylar, the man who took care of me without complaint, like that, almost the same age as Hannah and Michael are now, it was too much.

This letter joins the others with pride,

Claire.

* * *

Dear Peter,

There's a local myth about our old house. As I walked in front of the house for the first time, I got glances from an old woman watering plants, a neighbor of ours, a long time ago. Her stares were demeaning and curious so me, being me, walked towards her and she flinched under my stare. I assured her my intentions were good, that I was just curious about the house that was sending shivers down the neighborhood's spine.

She introduced herself as Mrs. Medina, a widow who lived in the same house for 30 years, never stepped out of her comfort zone and had a daughter of 18 living abroad. She felt awkward under my gaze, like I was Sylar again and she actually cared. But, then, she looked up to me and inspected me, head to toe, my ruffled hair, my clean-cut clothes that indicated I might as well have been in this suburban outlet for years, instead of the large apartment in New York City.

Then she called out my name, "Gabriel? Is that you, Gabriel?"

I nodded solemnly and she embraced me in her arms. It was like she was our mother, Peter, like she knew us better than Natasha ever did. By the way she talked about us, it seemed like she did.

"How's your brother?" she asked as she invited me in, it was a bit too normal for my taste, it seemed I still detested the whole thing. She felt more comfortable towards me, and was more than willing to tell me what I needed to know, wanted to know.

"Peter's dead," I said matter-of-factly, and her face went through an entire metamorphosis in two seconds flat in front of me.

I told her that you died in a burning building, something I came up quick under pressure, and that you left behind a fiancé, and two children of your own. The woman was cracking, her porcelain edges were barely intact but she was fine with telling me everything she knew.

Of our father, she was elusive of, it seemed no one really knew Daniel Linderman, behind his suits and briefcases and children, he was just a shadow in the family picture. He would come home every day, wish his neighbors cheerfully, and, sometimes, during neighborly functions, our father would bake some treats for his friends and that was the only time they saw him for a long period of time. Some people speculated he only did so under his wife's command.

Natasha, on the other hand, was actively involved in the community, this tight-knitted world we were supposed to grow up in before the catalyst hit us like a train. The way Mrs. Medina talked about our mother, the woman I murdered in cold blood, the woman who killed you, her own son, it seemed like I barely knew Natasha Christensen. A warm woman, kind, nice, she was like one of Daniel Linderman's pot pies.

Then we came to the subject of us, you and me, Peter, the beloved twins, the two boys they always wished to have, the perfect symbol of innocence. She showed me a few pictures (she was a frequent baby-sitter of ours) and she told me she loved us, because, then, she hadn't had her daughter yet and she considered us her own children.

"I came to see you the next day, you were about two, I think, but I couldn't," she said. "I knocked on the door and your mother answered, crying, she was distraught, the poor woman. I asked her the matter and she answered, between sobs, that you both were gone. Within the week, they were gone."

The rumor of us dead spread through the neighborhood like wildfire and hardly anyone believed it, hardly anyone wanted to believe it. Some speculated we were merely given up to adoption, on our father's command, others made burial sites, shrines for our lives tragically cut short. Mrs. Medina was one of the former, for she didn't want to believe in such a travesty, she wanted to hope of something more.

"The house became a ghost house, when they wanted to buy it, the news of your death reached them first and immediately withdrew their offers. It's been abandoned ever since, a haunting," Mrs. Medina said, pouring her third cup of coffee. "Do you…want to go inside?"

I nodded to her question but said I would rather go alone, and see the place we both were to grow up without interruptions. We could've been normal, Peter. She was right.

The house _was_ a haunting. Something eerie laid over it, ever since the last occupant said goodbye to it. Whenever I touch something, it seemed like I remember something. No, it wasn't an ability, it was just human sense.

Some spread the rumors of our ghosts still roaming the halls, little two year old boys with squeals and shrieks. A chilling consequence that I feel right now, in this very house, I'm all alone, but it's like you're right there with me. Maybe they weren't too wrong for spreading those rumors, because I can almost feel you.

The rush of air I breathe in that's too cold to be air, the creaks of the floors that aren't too subtle and make me jump and chill. The curtains swaying the midst of my roaming through the abandonment and the dusted photographs they didn't want to keep, memoirs of our sad, tragic life. I walked some more, and the floor creaked underneath my feet.

There was a hollow staircase, spiraling upwards. That was where I found our room. I blew off the dust on our door and it now read "Pete and Gabe's room" in a cursive penmanship that was, no doubt, our mother's. I've seen her write before.

I pushed it open and a burst of nostalgia went through me. The outlook of the room was dark and dusty, forgotten about for 28 years. Two cots and a toy box by the side. Toys on the floor, things they forgot to pack for us when they gave us up. There was a chair on the corner, and a book by the bedside. Something told me that one of our parents read to us the night before.

I sat on the reclining chair and saw the room from this point of view. The cots were dusty, that was evident, and I couldn't have imagined that both of us slept there. Something in me wanted to take the cots home to the kids, but it wouldn't be right. It was ours, and it's going to forever remain ours.

Remnants of our past, in which we have scared future tenants from staying in a house they thought haunted. In a vantage point, I could almost see the ghost of our childhood, coming back to haunt me. No, it wasn't me, it was just you. Little garbles and incoherent speaking from the forgotten you: the baby they lost and the brother I forgot. I can almost hear you call my name as I leave. The soft, chilling sound of your leaving voice: Gabriel…Gabriel…

Gabriel

* * *

Dear Peter,

I'm reaching fourteen now. I'm a good girl, the GPS tracker everyone relies on. I've been in a steady relationship for two years now, and it seems to be that way for a long time coming. I don't lie; I'm a truthful girl, an honest one.

My family's a little different than the rest of them, but I'm happy and I love Mohinder, I love Mia.

My best friend is the man who killed my hero and my parents, but Sylar's the closest thing to home for me, he understands me and looks out for me. He's like a brother to me. He protects me.

Some might even say that I've got the perfect life, that my life isn't in danger as it was a few years ago, that I've got what others strive for. But something's missing. Of course, because something's always missing from a life thought perfect. And that missing piece to the puzzle is, no doubt, you.

My favorite babysitter, my friend, my ally, you were what Sylar is now to me. Used to be, you were the only one who understood me, you were the only one who openly talked about your abilities. Mohinder didn't understand since he never had one and never will and Mia has never been quite as open as you. It's a job made easy for her, nothing else. Niki's too scarred from the Jessica thing to really use her abilities, but Micah talks to me about it, so I'm not really alone in that maneuver.

But you understand. Sure, I have Sylar now but who can top the magnificent Peter Petrelli, who people still talk of until this very moment. Who people still commemorate, no matter the occasion, and put a smile on their faces when they think of you. They make you out to be this big-shot hero, Peter, that you've never been broken.

It would probably insult your memory, but you weren't always so strong, Pete, you were broken sometimes, because you were still human. I'm probably the only one willing to taint this perfect picture they've painted on behalf of your tragic life cut shot, but, hey, it's worth a shot.

Sometimes you were a coward, a loser, and you yourself knew it, too. You never made an attempt to change it, though. You were happy enough because you did enough on the sidelines for them to forget this little trait of yours. This very trait was one of obstacles that kept you from loving the woman Fate handed you; you could've gotten there faster if it wasn't for it.

Plus you were a bit on the whiny side. God, you complained for not being a good hero, about actually being a hero, for that matter. Didn't it help that you were already doing great with the whole saving-the-world shindig? Wasn't it a boost-up knowing you saved the world dozens of times?

Sure, you exploded and haunted my dreams the first few days I adapted to my life in New York City, but you stopped it, too. You hurdled to the ground without a scratch and dubbed me angel when I helped you up. But you got up pretty quickly and stopped being the glowing man in my nightmares, and you started being the one thing you strived to be: a hero.

That should've stopped you from whining, saying you weren't good enough or whatever it was that was on your mind. I never said it to your face, but, since this is a letter, and this paper isn't your face, it sounds good enough for me.

I'm the only one willing to say these things and proudly proclaim that you were still human. With your pockets of abilities and endless empathy, someone would've made a mistake by tabbing you as more. Because you cried, you broke and shattered, because you wanted someone to look up to as much as you wanted someone to look up at you, because you were still naïve and a dreamer.

These were all the traits they forgot to say, because they're too scared that they're going to insult you. But it's important; it's part of your memory. To say that you were plain human underneath your million tricks, it's important to still remember that.

We used to have cheat codes, you remember? Signs of distress, sign languages that we used when we needed someone to save us from a boring conversation or a plain boring day, we used to have cheat codes. I never had anyone to cheat with at school, like rock for A or scissors for B, something like that, and, from what you told me, neither did you. Now we did. And you know what? This is the time I use mine for the first time in two years. Because I'm in distress, too, because I need you, my plain human superhero.

Love,

Molly Julian Walker.

* * *

A/N: I don't know if I can finish up Peter/Molly before time collapses on me, so it just judges whether I can finish or not. But the last letter was a little taste of what will be if I finish it up. But Peter/Molly, with or without it, the What If? segment is coming up soon.

-Aly


	7. What If?

A/N: This is the last Snapshot of Volume One. Volume Two will start once the sequel is released. Vol 1 was supposed to include Peter and Molly, too but I don't have time for it. Because I finally set on a date for the sequel: April 7th!

This chapter is a bit special because it veers off right after Chap 21, so Knox did not kill Peter and Hannah and Daphne did not run away. I don't know where grown-up Hannah is, let's just say she 'disappeared'.

Also, this chapter is in memoriam of a certain special character Heroes killed off in this week's episode. I won't mention names just in case I'll spoil it for you, but three cheers for this spectacular character who will live on in numerous other fanfics, including mine.

* * *

Snapshots

Part Infinity: What If?

Gabriel 'Sylar' Gray is a man of both science and faith. He believes in the logic of things, but he also believes there has to be a reason for these doings. He doesn't believe in sixth senses, though it's a constant theory that he's picked one up along the way of his journey. A part of him believes in ghosts, souls haunting the deserted corridors and hallways because he's always hoping he'll see the remnants of his past in these shadows.

He believes in the bright light when you die, because where else will you go? But he also believes in the dark spot inside your heart that will never be washed. But both sides of him, both science and faith, tell him to believe in one true thing. And the miracle of love is plaguing him inside out.

* * *

The afternoon is beautiful, the first in weeks. They've been coping inside, sure, with the rain drops pitter-pattering on the glass paned windows and the glass door opening up to the front yard, but it's nice to see that the world's just as happy as they are today.

Peter steps out of the house with hands in his pockets and breathes in the air swiftly and thankfully. He traces the scar on his face, slashing his handsome features but it seems everyone's gotten used to it, it's who he is now. Everyone doesn't mind it; in fact, it's just what makes him even more special than he already is.

His hair is in a clean-cut hairstyle now, more serious than his bangs that used to hang over his face, truth be told, it was somewhat an annoyance to keep stroking it back. Other than that, other than the scar and the hair, he's Peter Petrelli. Still is and always will be, except with a few adjustments for the better.

"Hey, there, handsome," someone says to him.

One said adjustment, he thinks, is the addition of Claire. Of course, she's always been there, but now, she's his. Claire Petrelli, with a wedding band around her finger and her blonde hair straight and short, following her husband in the seriousness department. She's not too fidgety to dye it brunette or red or anything of that sort, because she still wants to be the happy go lucky blonde for Peter.

"Hello, beautiful," Peter dips down to kiss his wife. Wife, he still can't get over that. "The kids awake?"

"Up and walking," Claire smiles at him, looking back through the door and seeing her children on the floor; Michael with Mayday and Hannah flipping through a pop-up book, yea, they're fine.

"Good, let's get outside, and plus we've got the camera to document this beautiful moment," Peter says, holding on to Claire by the arms.

"And we've got our guest of honor here," she chuckles, looking at the man reading a book on the swing.

"That's condescending," Peter says.

"No, it's not. It just indicates the man doesn't spend as much time with us as I'd like him to," Claire looks up to her husband.

"What are you talking about? He spends time with us plenty," the empath says.

"No, he spends time with you plenty," Claire retorts.

"Is that what this is? You're jealous? Oh, come on, he loves you as much as he loves me, Claire," Peter says mockingly.

"The kids should know him," Claire says.

"They already do, soon, they'll be calling him pet names that will get us both confused about who they're talking about," Peter smiles.

"Oh, shut up. I'll get the kids, get the camera and the man," Claire punches him in the arm playfully.

"Oh, come on, you love me," Peter calls out to her.

"Against my better judgment!" Claire shouts back.

Peter smiles and looks down on the grass, still wet from the morning dew. How did he get so lucky? This perfect dream in this pretty little dream house with two kids and a wife that he loves and loves him back, it wasn't supposed to happen, he's supposed to be this low-life petty man.

He doesn't deserve this kind of happiness, but he's gone and he's happy. He thanks God every night. A grateful boy, Peter Petrelli is.

"You ready?" he asks him.

The man looks from the book, and it's striking how alike they look. And all these years he thought Nathan was his brother, but a blind man could notice their relativity.

The same dark hair, the same dark eyes, almost the same built between the two men, the same blood that runs through their blood. Brothers, the two of them, but they spent most of their lives not knowing about the other's existence, either that or being sworn archenemies. It was still bad either way.

"Camera right and ready to go," he smiles at his twin.

Sylar's older, and it shows, too. Peter's always been naïve, but takes control when he needs to, but, for Sylar, controlling or having things in order is just in his nature to be.

"They'll be out in a sec," Peter says, and Sylar scoots over to make room for his brother on the swing that originally resided in the front yard of the Petrelli Mansion, now homey enough outside the suburban home.

"Claire's jealous, y'know," Peter says.

"Of who?" Sylar asks absent-mindedly, his eyes plastered on his book-Shakespeare, figures.

"You. She thinks you're going to steal me away from her," Peter chuckles.

"That is fairly disgusting, though you've had your share of incestuous relationships," Sylar finally looks up and there's a happy streak in his eyes.

"Supposed incestuous relationship and note the singular, Sylar," the empath smiles. "You found a place to stay yet?"

"Nope, still looking, but there's an apartment I like, in the city," Sylar breathes in.

"In the city?" Peter asks, concerned.

"I'm a big boy, Peter. I'll live. I don't need protection, I can fend for myself," Sylar looks at his younger brother.

"I know you can. I'm just worried I'd lose you. I just got you back and I'm not willing the risk," the empath says.

"You're not risking anything. If I end up dead, there's always Claire. And I promise to visit," the watchmaker shrugs.

"Good," Peter nods. "And you know I'm saying this just 'cause I love you, right?"

"If you mean that in a non-creepy, completely legal way, then yes," Sylar retorts.

There's a slight moment of silence, it isn't awkward or unwanted, it's just there. A normal, happy silence but there's a question just hanging on Peter's brain waiting to escape from his mouth.

"And you've been doing fine? With everything?" Peter asks. It's a slightly veiled question but Sylar knows what his brother is talking about. It's always this.

"I'm fine. You've got to stop asking that, Pete. It's been a year," Sylar sighs.

"I didn't take an oath to protect you or anything, I just feel like I should. I know how torn up you were at the funeral and the months following. I'm looking out for you, Sylar. She was your best friend," Peter says.

By this, Sylar's already looking down, looking down on the book on his lap and his eyes following the illustrations instead of nodding at his brother because that's what he usually does.

"She was my best friend," Sylar says, this time he nods. "She still is."

Daphne Millbrook died, a year ago, just when things had gotten better and everything fell together instead of falling apart. For someone so extraordinary, she died pretty ordinarily. But it didn't make her less of what he made of her. He was, in Peter's words, torn up about it, but he pulled through; he had Peter anyway. That did make Sylar miss her little less, it dulled to an ache over time, a wound that would never fully heal.

"She'd be proud of you right now," Peter put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"She's the one who should be proud. She made me this way, and I'm thankful. I loved her," Sylar looks up and smiles at his brother.

"I know you did," Peter says sympathetically.

"We're here!" someone cheers. Claire's finally out with the kids, one in each side of her.

"That took long enough!" Peter hollers back and gets up to kiss his wife.

"Well, they're kids," Claire shrugs it off.

"Wait, before we video the kids, let's take a picture of just adults," Peter puts his hand up in a stop motion.

"I want to ask why, but there's no use, is there?" Sylar asks his sister-in-law quietly as Peter sets up the camera.

"Nope," Claire smiles apologetically.

"I'm moving out, you know. Soon," Sylar says, standing a little bit more upright. "I'm sure you're happy about that."

"Happy? Never. I love having you around, Sy. I don't hold some kind of resentment for you. You're not a burden," Claire grips affectionately on his arm.

"Thanks, Claire," Sylar smiles.

"Alright, ready?" Peter asks cheerfully.

"Ready," his wife chirps in.

After the picture's taken, Peter feels as if this has happened before, this front yard, these children, this beautiful woman claimed his, this man who's a kindred soul, he feels as if he's felt these feelings before. Then it strikes him: he has. But it's better this time because it's real and he's not going to let go anytime soon.

* * *

It's a dark place, but, then again, the Primatech building has always been dark and scary. The two brothers trudge down the hallways, each one of them holding a prisoner. The Company's been dead for months, collecting dust and becoming stale subjects in conversations, but that doesn't mean the people inhibiting it have escaped or been shipped off somewhere else.

The building's plain eerie, darkness is just a shrouding blanket over the misery. Peter switches on the light of his flashlight and the trail of light opens their sight ever so slightly. It doesn't help, because they've searched the place high and low for anyone else. Then they hear a scream. Apparently, they haven't searched everywhere.

"Damn, that was creepy," Peter chills.

"Yeah, it was. You go, I'll stay here to keep look out," Sylar says, holding up one of the prisoners. The other one has already slumped against the wall out of surrender.

"Right aye. Stay here," Peter then goes. It seems like seconds before Peter's back, and in his arms is an unconscious woman, blonde hair willowing in the wind.

"I found her in the basement. She's been through hell," Peter looks down at her, her face bleeding and bruised. She hasn't been in such good shape in a while. She looks familiar. Sylar inches closer and finally sees it. No, it couldn't be her…

"I know her," Sylar breathes quietly.

"You do?" Peter asks, incredulous.

"She saved my life once," Sylar says. "A long time ago."

"I guess you two can reunite back at the safe house," Peter says, lifting her up in his arms, while Sylar's stuck with holding the two male prisoners. For a moment there, he wishes that he's the one holding her. No, he'll get that chance later. Suddenly, his body's being pulled towards gravity and he's back home.

Sylar's welcomed by warm colors, of squeals of delight coming from toddlers. God, he misses that sound. His niece and nephew hug him as soon as he's in their sight. "Uncle Sylar!" they yell, as each of them takes position on both sides of him.

They're two now, and each of them have ambitions the size of mountains, they might differ a little but both of them want to be heroes like their parents.

"I'm glad you made it make alive," Claire greets her husband with a quick peck on the cheek happily.

"Don't we always?" Peter laughs, setting the two men on the guest bed.

"That's supposed to be a joke, right? My husband's a free-lancing vigilante and I'm not supposed to be worried?" Claire shrugs.

"Correction, your husband's a _part-time_ free-lancing vigilante and, no, you shouldn't be worried," Peter says.

"Glad you're back, Sy," Claire hugs her brother-in-law.

"Yes, because I never come home," Sylar says sarcastically.

"We need to register the new ones," Peter cuts in between them. The empath has a knack for doing that, but, then again, he's his brother and the interruption is always over-looked. "The men have tags on them, Wallace Victor and Gary Keller. The woman's got no ID, though."

Sylar looks over his brother's shoulder and sees the men through the glass door of the guest bedroom and they're sprawled unconsciously on the mattress. The woman, however, is lying on the muddy couch, a gift from Nathan that Peter never appreciated, her blonde hair around her, messy and disheveled like her life.

Sylar passes his brother and feels his gazing, curious stare on him as he crouches down beside the woman and brushes back her hair tenderly. It should seem weird to Peter, because Sylar hasn't shown this much care or adoration for a woman ever since Daphne's death. This is different. So different, Sylar thinks.

"Elle," he finally says. Her eyelids are covering the eyes he knows are blue, the bluest of blues he's ever seen; he can't wait for her to open her eyes. "Her name's Elle."

He takes his hand off her, gently so she won't notice the change, but his fingers are aching for her skin again. He feels a shift in nature; Peter's left the room, but he can still feel the presence of his sister-in-law. He wants to tell Elle it's all okay now, that everything's fine, that he's back to being Gabriel, just the way she likes. And she can be Elle again, she'll charm with rhyming greeting and peach pie and amazing ziti. He's Gabriel, in the world he's willing to be in now, she can be Elle and she can make him fall for her all over again.

* * *

It's two weeks later, and Sylar's never been this happy since Daphne. He's grateful for that because he deserves happiness, he doesn't want glory or heroism; he wants happiness, fulfillment of life. This is shortcut for that. Elle's perfect, she's as happy as he is but she doesn't confide.

She doesn't want to, says she doesn't need to because she's fine, and there's no reason to bring up the past because it's hurt her enough. But Sylar wants to understand, he wants to know what hurt her and why he can't bring it up. This is one of the times that Sylar wishes he could read minds. Just this one time, he just wants to pry inside of her head, to know what she's feeling.

It's all hues of pink and blue with her, because it can't be black and white. He's confused and wrought with concern whenever she throws him away. He doesn't get it, one minute she's happy and telling her it's fine and asking him to go the goddamned zoo then she's iron steel; won't talk, locks the door. Today is the latter. Sylar knocks on the door desperately.

"Elle?" he calls out. "Come on, Elle, talk to me."

"Screw you, Sylar. Just go away," Elle says hotly.

She's like a temperamental child and he can't control her like he used to. What happened today that catapulted her to this state? Well, they did go to the zoo, with Hannah and Michael, and the kids have taken a liking to her, calling her Ellie. Sylar's seen her face flinch whenever someone calls her that, but that can't be the cause. It wasn't an eventful day, except that they ran into someone familiar…Oh no, that's it, isn't it? Before Sylar can ask, Elle's already talking.

"You like her, don't you?" she asks. It _is_ that. They met someone Sylar saved a few months ago, a girl, about Elle's age, named Carrie.

"No, I don't," Sylar says. Of course he doesn't, it's just Elle he thinks about, it's her images that keep him awake, not Carrie's, and it's her voice that's on continuous play in his head.

"You should. You shouldn't like me," Elle says.

"Why not?" Sylar asks. "I lied to you. That time, when we met, I completely and utterly lied to you. And now, I've been nothing but hard to handle and a bitch to you and you're just too nice," Elle breathes.

"What do you mean you lied to me?" Sylar asks.

"I worked for the Company; I made you kill then that outburst with my powers. I lied to you, Sylar," she says.

"Doesn't matter," Sylar says easily. It should matter, it would've, if this was set a few years ago but he's happy now. No amount of truth is going to change that.

"It should," she says.

"Fine, say that it does matter, but are you still Elle Bishop? Are you still the woman who saved my life even when I had nothing to offer you? Are you still the woman who convinced me I was worth something?" Sylar asks.

"I guess," Elle answers.

"Then it doesn't matter," Sylar ends it. "You say I can't like you, and I haven't really been the rule-breaking man. This is one time I do break the rules, because I do like you."

So that's it, that's his speech that doesn't even include the four-letter word that's on the tip of his tongue. He walks from the door, leaving Elle to cool off and be Elle again. But the door suddenly opens, and there's Elle, messy, distraught. Here's Elle inching closer towards him until he feels a pull and he's the one to make the move. Here's Sylar, kissing the woman he loves, in a hallway of an empty house. And here's Elle and Sylar, finally happy.

* * *

"There is no merciful Lord," Sylar says as he retreats into the kitchen.

It's been months since Elle first dropped onto the face of Sylar's planet, and they've been doing well, as a couple, that is. First kiss: six months ago. First real date: five and a half months ago. First time doing the dirty: they're still working on that one. They were over at the Petrelli residence, spending the night just the four of them.

"What makes you say that?" Claire asks, chuckling.

"Peter, your beloved husband, has gone insane. He's singing Aerosmith," Sylar says, his hands still over his ears. Curse his super ears.

"That's Peter? I thought someone was dying," Claire says.

"Someone was, me," Sylar says, looking at her.

"Peter's a great man, singing is just one of his bad traits," Claire says, putting some groceries in their respective places.

"You couldn't have checked that before you married him?" Sylar groans.

"Oh, shut up. He is your brother, you know," Claire smiles at him.

"If he sings in public, I swear, we are no longer related," Sylar says, taking a seat and putting his elbows on the kitchen counter.

"You and Elle are doing well," Claire notes.

"Yes, we are. She's a remarkably wonderful woman if she accepts to my dysfunctional family," Sylar says.

"It'll drone out, don't worry," Claire smiles at him. "But, seriously, do you like her? We certainly do, we gave you our blessing."

"Blessing? Peter's my brother, not my father," Sylar retaliates.

He sighs, and thinks of Elle. Her face, sculpted by angels, which gives out the impression she's one of them, too. She has a cute laugh, so adorable that he can't help but laugh, too. She's amazing is his conclusion. "I'm falling head over heels," Sylar confesses to his sister-in-law.

He imagined the day he would fall in love, but, through his serial killing days, he never really made time for love, or lust, even, for that matter. A few years ago, it might've been so out of character for him to actually confess his love, his care for another person. But, it's different now, sometimes he thinks, with his sanity; he gave away his reason to love, too.

It took only Daphne to bring it back. Sometimes he still thinks about her, the woman who saved his life inside out, but he tends not to delve too deep so that the wound doesn't open up again. Daphne's a tender subject. So he focuses on the good. The good being his brother, as insane as he is with his singing, his sister-in-law, whom he cares the world for, his niece and nephew, the joys in his miserable life, and, inevitably, Elle.

Elle, who he thinks he's falling for, Elle, who's the Claire to his Peter, Elle, the woman he hopes one day will be willing enough to bear his last name as her own.

"I shouldn't say that to Peter, though," Sylar says.

"Why not?" Claire asks.

"He'll shoot out with Hey Jude, with rendered lyrics. I cannot bear the na-na-na-nas Peter's gonna give," Sylar smiles. Then, suddenly, light begins to shine again, the world is sane again, Peter has stopped singing.

"Can you hear that?" Sylar says to a chuckling Claire. Elle comes into the kitchen, laughing her adorable little laugh.

"Peter's very entertaining," she says, as she gives Sylar a kiss.

"This family's insane," Sylar says.

"But it's your family, and I like you so I automatically like your family," Elle kisses him gently on the mouth.

* * *

Elle Gray intently looks at the two brothers on their birthday. It's already snowing; it's only two more days until Christmas, anyway. The house is already decorated, full of holly and mistletoe and love and joy. The way she looks at them, it's as if she's searching for signs of why they love each other so much.

They shouldn't love each other this much, because a few years ago, they were nothing by sworn enemies against each other and now, here they are, treating each other like they never were given up or separated from their family, separated from each other. Maybe Sylar doesn't like bringing up the past, thinking it's best it's now and there in front of his eyes instead of having to reach until his arms ache.

He doesn't mention the first time they met anymore, but both of them know it's there, and she knows her husband is just keeping quiet because it hurts that she lied to him and Sylar's too honorable to say anything. She watches Peter and Sylar again, in between happy smiles and holiday greetings and people she could care less about.

It's only this family that she gives a damn about, probably because they were the only people to give a shitty damn about her in the beginning. She's returning the favor, by loving their oldest son and being indebted to their youngest. Elle's all alone in the kitchen, elbows propped up and her hair reaching her back, and watching this pretty scene she's been invited to but is more than welcome to watch instead.

Wasn't it a few years ago when Sylar was out on the world, wanting Peter nothing more as prey, as someone he could sink his teeth into for his conquest for power. The conquest she just happened to take place in administering. But she saw the interaction as loving, as if something was never lost in the beginning of it, and the brothers were just that: brothers.

They forgave each other, they loved each other, and they were each other's better half. To Elle, she could see how Peter and Sylar were perfectly coined together. Peter is empathic and easy to understand in a blink, someone you could fall in love with in seconds, while Sylar is a little rough around the edges, and you have to work to get into him. Peter stood for all that was good, while his own brother had stood on the opposite side of the yellow line that represented their relationship.

But, now, with Sylar and Peter fighting on the same side, she can see the imbalance and balance all at the same time. They are two halves of the same coin.

Elle Gray is just one side of the story, there's no one to verify her tale or be what Sylar is to Peter, because she's just a useless toy propped up, you only see the front while the back is collecting dust against the wall. But it's fine, because she's got Sylar and she's got people who give a damn about her. Her powers are intact and she's not in need of a mental institution anytime soon, and she can't see any destruction in the near future. It's the closest she's got to perfect.

And, now, she figures she should tell Sylar. So she goes home early because she needs time to think. Says she's a bit under the weather and needs some rest from all the holiday joy. Sylar doesn't retaliate, he knows his wife isn't lying to him. Hugs Claire and Peter goodbye and gives each of the children candy and kisses her husband while saying, swiftly, "See you back home."

She expects him to be home in at least an hour, but, no, he's back within fifteen minutes so that her brain isn't really functioning well. She stands up immediately when he comes home.

"I'm home!" Sylar calls out.

"You're missing the honey in the beginning of that sentence," Elle smirks and leans against the wall. "Hi." She's wearing a neat ponytail, and she has ice-cream in her hands and she has her thinking cap on, which is figurative.

"Ok, what's wrong?" Sylar drops his bag on the floor.

"What makes you think something wrong?" Elle asks.

"You have your hair in a ponytail, which means you've been thinking a lot. You've just eaten Ben and Jerry's, the last time you did that you were about to tell me you cheated on me. Don't worry, I've forgiven you. Also, you stood up just when I came home; I usually have to count to 5 to make you do that," Sylar smiles at her.

"Okay, so you're more observant than I give you credit for," Elle slumps on the couch.

Sylar sits beside her and asks, "What's wrong, Elle?"

Elle takes in a deep breath and confesses, "I'm pregnant."

There's an awkward silence, there's a silent veil hanging over them and all she wants to do is rip it apart because she hates it when Sylar doesn't say anything. He doesn't for a long time, at least it seems like a long time to her, but, then, he smiles.

"You're not mad?" Elle asks, incredulous. Sylar smiles and kisses her, from her forehead, nose and then finally landing happily on her lips, and says against her lips, "As long as it's ours, I'm delirious."

* * *

Five years ago, he was nothing but a man stuck in a level 5 cell, a monster and a man without a mission. Five years ago, he had nothing, he had no one to depend on and nothing to look forward to or back to. He had memories, sure, but memories meant nothing to that man, but this man, this new man with the wife and the kid and brother and the sister-in-law can only laugh at the man he once called himself.

But he figures he owes it to monster-him because if it wasn't for him, he wouldn't have met Daphne and he wouldn't have changed. He wouldn't have found the love of his life and be truly happy for once in his life, settling for something that was more than he bargained for. What he was really happy about, joyous, quite over-the-top was the birth of his son.

His own flesh and blood, the little person he's going to take care of for the rest of his life. The kid who will be the cause of Sylar's restless insomnia through the night of his infancy and the wearing out of his powers by propping him up chairs so that he won't fall or bump his head. The soul that Sylar will never take his eyes off, and love forever, until it's his final breath.

Noah Lucas Gray, Sylar keeps playing the name over and over again in his head and it never gets bored. His son is named after Claire's departed foster father who brought out everything from Elle and Sylar's life, both good and bad. And it gives Sylar a glow when he thinks that his son will live knowing his name is of a good man's.

"You're a father now," someone says. Sylar's watching his son from the window, his hands pressed against the glass until he turns and sees his brother.

"Is it supposed to feel this…overwhelming?" Sylar asks as Peter stands beside him.

"Yeah, if I remember correctly, it did feel overwhelming. But, mind you, I had two kids instead of the simple one," he chuckles.

"It feels like I can't let him go or stop thinking about him. I love him so much already," Sylar breathes in.

"I know the feeling," Peter pats his shoulder.

"How did I get this way? I'm supposed to be the killer, not the domesticated daddy," Sylar looks at Peter.

"You got this way because you knew it was worth while. And, look, it is worthwhile, isn't it?" Peter says.

"Yeah, it's worthwhile," Sylar nods.

A nurse comes in, watching the two men outside and asks, "Would you like to see your son?"

Sylar nods happily and looks back at Peter, as if asking for approval, but Peter nods yes nonetheless. Peter Petrelli has had his share of truly happy moments, where he forgets all oblivion and it's just him and the source of happiness. He found it with flying; at first, knowing he was special beneath it all, then with Claire, then with his children.

Then he found it when Sylar, knowing he had a hand in him being good again, knowing he stayed good because of him, and the brotherhood that had evolved between them. And now, watching his older brother hold his son in a tender manner, so gentle because he's scared the little boy will break in his hands, because as long as Sylar's happy, as long as Sylar's found joy amongst destruction, a miracle beneath the rubble of a fallen building, he's just as thankful. Because, hey, they're brothers and that's what brothers do for each other.

* * *

"It's funny how our lives are counted by deaths," Peter says, planting a rose on Daphne's grave.

"No, really, it's not," Sylar says solemnly.

He's sitting on the ground of the cemetery. It's the anniversary of Daphne's death, it's been five years. Five years, half a decade, and Sylar feels he hasn't been commemorating her well enough. This was the woman who saved his life, damn it, in more ways than one, inside and out, he owes her everything. Without her, Sylar wouldn't have Elle, he wouldn't have Noah and he truly can't imagine a day without his son in it.

"I owe her everything, don't I?" Sylar asks.

"Not everything," Peter sits down next to him, breathing in the fresh air of the cemetery, laid in with grievance and misery.

"What do you mean?" Sylar asks curiously. His face is decorated with almost tears for loss and remembrance of his best friend.

"After she died, you could've strayed, you could've gone back to your old ways, but you didn't, did you?" Peter says. "Now, that, we can thank on you yourself. See, Daphne was the trigger for you getting back to square one, but you were the one who kept holding on."

"But there was you, and Daphne or no Daphne-" Sylar says but Peter cuts him off.

"You still could've left," he says. "But you stuck around. And that was all up to you."

True, Sylar thinks. He could've just split, after knowing the one person who kept him hanging was dead and killed, he could've just abandoned the Petrelli clan in the dead of night with a simple note and gone back to his old ways, killing and murdering. He could've just left. Maybe he doesn't owe everything to Daphne, maybe there's some part of the reason of why he's here, where he is that he should be thankful for.

"I don't owe everything to her," Sylar sighs. "Because some of it is because of you, too." His brother, his kin, he owes something to Peter, too. "I love you, Peter. Thank you, for everything."

"I love you, too. And it's no big deal. I would've done anything for you," Peter says.

As they get up, Peter gives Sylar a hug, an embrace; it's been a while. When they're in front of the car, Sylar says randomly, "I can't imagine what it would be like if you died."

"What?" Peter asks absent-mindedly, not paying attention. They get in the car and Sylar rides shotgun.

"I mean, what if Knox had managed to kill you, that day, at battlefield, I can't imagine life like that," he says. "It wouldn't be like this, no you, no Elle, no Noah. I just can't imagine that."

"It certainly would be different," Peter drives.

"Yeah, it would be," Sylar says, looking on. "But I'm glad it isn't."

"You know what?" Peter smiles at his older brother. "So am I. Everything's perfect just the way it is. I can't imagine it anyway else."

* * *

A/N: The last Snapshot, people! Look out on April 7th!!

-Aly


End file.
